Destiny
by Raletha
Summary: [Solace Arc] Trowa and Quatre meet again as they leave Europe together by freighter and travel to San Francisco. episode 7 :: 343 :: canon, violence, death, action, drama, angst
1. Destiny Chapter 1

Destiny Chapter 1 

A Gundam Wing Fanfiction by Raletha 

Part of the Solace Arc. 

Disclaimer: Gundam Wing is copyrighted by Bandai, Sunrise, and the Sotsu Agency. I am not making any money from this. 

Summary: Trowa and Quatre meet again as they leave Europe together by freighter and travel to San Francisco. Trowa finds feelings of betrayal resurface while Quatre attempts to convince him that they can work together and become close. Finally, a mysterious stranger complicates things for the two young pilots during their transatlantic voyage. 

Warnings: shounen ai, 3+4+3, violence, action, drama, angst, introspection, language, empathic weirdness 

Thanks: To Anne for her support and enthusiasm throughout the writing of this fic, the beta reading, and for giving the fic its working title: 'Love Boat'. Thank you to Lady Bast as well for her insight, comments, and support. 

] Earth - Marseilles, France - spring AC 195 [ 

  


Reaching up and slamming closed the door of his transport truck, Trowa considered the vehicle he'd parked next to in the ship's hold. It was a near twin to his, and the tarp-covered bulk in the back also mirrored his own cargo. The chances of running into Quatre in Marseilles seemed remote but... A voice came from behind him as if cued by that thought. 

"Hi! So, we meet again!" Quatre's cheerful greeting echoed throughout the expansive cargo hold of the freighter, unmistakable and somewhat unwelcome. 

Trowa knew another meeting with the blond pilot was inevitable, and even though he had been looking forward to such an encounter, he had hoped it wouldn't happen so soon. He still required time to sort out his feelings where the other boy was concerned. In the intervening weeks since he had first met Quatre Raberba Winner, Trowa had spent a great deal of time reflecting upon their meeting and his subsequent stay at Quatre's Anatolia compound. 

_He didn't do anything wrong,_ Trowa reminded himself, but the feelings of betrayal lingered despite his best efforts to dismiss them. He'd concluded that it wasn't that _Quatre_ had betrayed him - on the contrary, the other boy had conducted himself in good faith and had demonstrated a remarkable tolerance. What angered Trowa was how easily he had betrayed _himself_. He'd let his guard down, accepting the other boy as an ally so quickly and without question, only to find that trust had been - however unwittingly - misplaced. Unnerved, he didn't want to put himself back in a position where his confidence would be vulnerable to further exploitation. 

It was under the influence of this discomfort that, with a surge of irritation, Trowa gritted his teeth, frowned, and turned to face the other pilot. But he was unprepared for the reality of actually seeing Quatre again. He had not anticipated the way in which his stomach lurched in a giddy, almost pleasurable way, the way his breath caught unexpectedly, or the way his vision suddenly hungered to devour the sight of him. The boy's posture was open and non-threatening, his smile genuine and bright as his voice. Pale hair shining in the harsh light of the cargo hold, and blue-green eyes sparkling in enthusiasm, Quatre was even more beautiful than Trowa remembered him. _Beautiful? What are you thinking?_ Trowa's frown deepened. 

Unaffected by the glower, Quatre continued as if Trowa had greeted him warmly, "Isn't it funny how we've ended up in the same place?" 

In an attempt to distance himself from the friendliness in the blond's voice, and also to reign in his own disconcerting reactions to the boy, Trowa turned to the side, placing his hands on his hips, and replied coolly, "I'm doing this alone." And he meant it as he said it. Trowa fully intended to remain an independent actor in this next mission against OZ. Regardless of how things stood between them, he would not follow Quatre; he would not become one of his men. 

Quatre's smile became a grin as he moved to mimic Trowa's stance, "Of course you are. So am I." The other pilot paused for a moment and added, "But it would be better if we helped each other." 

_Is he mocking me?_ Trowa wondered. But, despite the apparent flippancy of the comment, Quatre's words implied two things that were not the least bit teasing. First, the boy was undertaking the mission without support from the Maguanac Corps. That alone piqued Trowa's curiosity. Second, Quatre had just indicated that he had no desire for Trowa to follow him, but rather for the two of them to cooperate, to fight as equals. Slowly Trowa turned his back. _Let's see how serious he is,_ he thought, and spoke as he began to walk away from Quatre. "Think so?" He kept his tone carefully neutral, and his steps slow. _Convince me_

  
  


Before he could reflect on his next words or actions, Quatre found himself moving to follow Trowa and calling out, "Two is always better than one." After a few steps, however, he stopped with a scowl, staring hard at Trowa's slowly retreating figure. The tall pilot was moving deliberately, casually; his gait and carriage dared (or did they beckon?) Quatre to follow him. 

_Does he want me to follow? Or expect me to?_ Quatre resisted delving beneath the surface emotions he could passively detect from Trowa in an attempt to answer those questions. The brunet may not know of, or appreciate, the courtesy, but Quatre would know, and his conscience demanded that he treat Trowa with as much respect as possible at the moment. Calm and balanced were the dominant and prevalent emotions Quatre detected, although Trowa's demeanor had been briefly punctured by a confusing succession of what Quatre thought he could identify as annoyance, mild arousal, determination, and then finally curiosity. At the moment, nothing stronger than cool self-possession was present. 

Puzzled, Quatre watched Trowa exit the hold via a door which likely led to the upper decks of the ship. When he'd spotted Trowa guiding his truck onto the ship, Quatre had been pleased to see the other pilot. Since Trowa had cut short his stay at Anatolia, Quatre had been anxious for a second meeting; there were so many things he wanted to discuss with him. He had expected a warmer greeting from Trowa than he'd received, however. As Trowa had left Anatolia, he hadn't seemed overly upset - more resigned and vaguely hopeful. Yet on this evening, Trowa's demeanor had been bordering on hostility. _Only at first,_ Quatre noted. Trowa had relaxed and grown curious after their brief exchange. 

With a sigh, Quatre shook his head and decided to give Trowa his space for now. Whether the other pilot had desired that Quatre pursue the matter between them immediately was of secondary importance; he didn't want to be pushy - and, on this trip, there would be plenty of opportunity for talking. They were scheduled travel aboard this ship, a container and cargo freighter, the S.S. Destiny, for eleven days to the port of Oakland [1] - two days before the scheduled OZ meeting at the New Edwards Air Force Base. 

After collecting his suitcase and verifying his cargo was secure, Quatre made his way to the same door Trowa had used. It did in fact lead to a narrow stairway that would take him to the upper decks of the ship. As he reached the main deck, Quatre was met by the ship's steward, a youthful looking middle-aged man who greeted him politely in German accented English, "Welcome aboard, Master...?" 

Quatre set his suitcase down to shake the man's hand, "Winner, Quatre Winner." 

"Yes, of course. I should have realised." The man took Quatre's luggage, and indicated Quatre should follow him to the nearest stairwell. "You see, it is uncommon for us to have passengers your age. There is another young man traveling with us. Perhaps you will enjoy each other's company?" 

"I'll look forward to making his acquaintance," Quatre replied, following the steward up several flights of stairs to the level where his cabin was located. 

"I hope you will find everything comfortable. Two decks down, the galley is open to the passengers at all hours, but meals are served only at appointed times. Breakfast is served from eight-thirty until nine-thirty each morning." The man unlocked the door and set Quatre's suitcase just inside before passing the keycard to the boy. "I shall leave you to get settled since it's late. If you would like a tour of the ship tomorrow or another day, let me know. The ship will be underway within two hours, after the remaining cargo has been loaded and passengers are aboard." 

"Thank you," Quatre inclined his head briefly as the steward turned and left, and moved to enter his new home for the next week and a half. [2] 

The cabin was far larger than he had expected, Quatre was pleasantly surprised to note the presence of a large desk, a comfortable seating arrangement complete with a vid screen and disc player, and a slightly separate sleeping area containing a pair of single beds. It was framed by heavy drapery in a deep burgundy - presumably for keeping out the light or providing extra privacy should two people find themselves sharing the chamber - and flanked by a built-in wardrobe. The furniture was all fashioned of a real, dark-grained wood and protected by thick layers of glossy varnish. The upholstery was a rich, navy blue and the hardware gleaming, polished brass. At the single starboard-facing window, the curtains were drawn. Quatre stepped over to the window, holding back the drapery to peer out into the night. On the quay the last few vehicles were being rolled into the cargo hold while above, the towering gantry cranes swung large shipping containers onto the deck. 

Bringing his suitcase to one of the beds, Quatre busied himself with unpacking. Going through that rather mechanical procedure he found his thoughts wandering back to Trowa. 

_Trowa Barton,_ Quatre mused, letting the syllables of the enigmatic youth's assumed name tumble through his mind. _What do I know about you?_ His chosen name coincided with his past dealings with the Barton Foundation. But since the young pilot was now at odds with the organization, he must have taken the name as a sort of cover? Was there a real, original Trowa Barton? Had there been? Quatre remembered his father speaking only of the Foundation with scorn. _Father felt they did more harm than good for the colonies, that their politics bordered on extreme - though their propaganda machine skillfully concealed it,_ Quatre recalled. That opinion was certainly borne out by the information Trowa had imparted regarding the Foundation's role in Operation Meteor. 

So, Trowa was not a political radical. That wasn't much of a revelation. Quatre had sensed in the other boy more of a kindred spirit in terms of their motivations for fighting for the colonies - even though Trowa had ascribed much of his reasoning to a cynical estimation of his own abilities and experience. _He's a closet idealist,_ Quatre decided, smiling now as he cast his mind back to those revealing details of his meeting with Trowa. The other pilot had been wonderstruck by the beauty of the desert, intrigued by the food and the architecture at the compound, and overjoyed by the music they had played together. Those were not emotions one would associate with a burnt out cynic. 

_But, he hides it so well - even from himself._ Quatre frowned as he considered again the weary fatalism that had accompanied the other soldier when he'd launched his attack on Sandrock. It had been a similar feeling by the pool when Quatre had asked him why he fought, and the next day when he had left. 

_The dreamer who despairs,_ Quatre chuckled at the contradiction. However, this apparent dichotomy of Trowa's nature was truly no stranger than his own. _The pacifist who fights._

_Maybe that's part of the attraction?_ Quatre pondered with a self-conscious smile. Though he was reluctant to indulge such romantic notions, he knew the attraction he felt for the other boy was more than amply returned. And further, the feeling - at least on his part - seemed to run deeper than just a raw physical response. When he'd first sensed Trowa, and when he'd first laid eyes on the other boy, he'd had a peculiar feeling of recognition. Something had been immediately compelling, comfortable, and familiar; though Quatre had thus far been unable to isolate that element. _There'll be plenty of time to pursue this - and other things, Quatre hoped silently,_ and returned his attention to the present. 

After closing his suitcase, Quatre stowed it in the bottom of the large wardrobe and collected his toiletry kit, keen to evaluate the bathroom facilities next. Polished white porcelain, shiny chrome, and mirrored walls met Quatre as he flipped on the light in the ensuite. Grinning at the comfortable and roomy design, he was thrilled to see there was even a capacious bathtub. Since the freighter was equipped with its own desalinization plant below, water usage wouldn't be problematic. _I wonder if there's a swimming pool?_ And with that thought, Quatre decided he was feeling far too restless to settle in for the night; a brief excursion to explore some of the ship was in order. 

Remembering the chill that had been carried on the early spring breeze, Quatre traded his vest for a cabled sweater in a dark, heathery blue and slid his key card into his back pocket before heading out into the corridor. He intended to at least find the officers' mess and lounge before he retired for the evening. It didn't take him long to locate either, two decks above the main level. The lounge unfortunately faced forward on the ship and its view was obscured completely by containers. The officer's mess faced starboard, like his quarters. 

Around him, the ship came to life as the engines were readied for departure. A steady bass vibration permeated the surrounding surfaces, and so it was with a thrill of excitement that Quatre headed to the nearest door leading to the exterior stairway, hoping it would take him to the topmost observation deck. He quickly clambered up the steep metal stairs, his footsteps ringing loudly over the deeper thrum of the ship's engines. 

Slightly breathless he arrived at his destination and hurried to the rail to take in the sparkling lights lining the graceful, wide crescent of the Marseilles Port [3]. The myriad architecture of France's oldest city was unfortunately obscured by the night, but the colourful display of the city's illumination more than made up for it in Quatre's estimation. He stepped back from the rail, rotating in a slow 360-degree arc, taking in the other ships arrayed in the harbour, the drawbridges, and the artful curve of the levee beyond which stretched the vast darkness of the Mediterranean. With a contented sigh, Quatre threw his head back to gaze up at the stars; their brightness, diminished by the city glare, was nevertheless spectacular. There was no sky in space. 

Turning his attention to the vast span of the ship's deck extending forward, Quatre watched in fascination as the last of the containers were secured and the gantry cranes fell still. The activity at ground level had ceased, and behind him, the ship's smoke stacks were beginning to belch out their thick exhaust. On the sea-side of the ship a pair of valiant looking tugboats was approaching. Dwarfed by the massive freighter, they were there to help guide the cumbersome ship around the breakwater to exit the harbour. 

A set of approaching footsteps echoed on the stairs; Quatre turned to greet the newcomer, only to see Trowa arrive. The brunet hesitated, a brief expression of surprise flitting across his features, before he stepped forward, and offered a short nod in greeting. Quatre smiled in return, uncertain how to best respond to the other boy's presence. Giving an imagined shrug, Quatre turned back to the rail to watch a large ship in the distance being guided out to sea on the other side of the levee - it looked like a luxury cruise vessel, lit up like a Christmas tree and brilliant as it approached the dark horizon. A short distance beside him, Trowa came to lean on the railing, his body language slightly wary as his eyes followed Quatre's earlier observations. 

Attempting a discreet observation of Trowa, Quatre turned slightly toward the tall pilot but continued to observe the activity on the water between covert glances at the other boy's profile. Trowa had donned a black wool pea coat to fend off the nippy night air. Its high collar obscured the line of his jaw and chin while the dark colour of the fabric contrasted with his skin tone, making the boy look ethereally pale in the dim light and enhancing the shaded curve of his cheekbones. A fluttering breeze ruffled through Trowa's hair revealing his expression, which was typically placid, and yet there was a hint of something more in his eyes as they gazed straight ahead into the night. Something sad almost - something quietly wistful - tinged their aspect. 

Trowa's earlier hostility had vanished, to be replaced by a pensive expectancy. Quatre wondered if this was Trowa's attempt at an overture of amicability - or at the least a proposition of alliance if not friendship. _I should say something,_ he realised as his mind nervously scoured itself for what exactly he should be saying. _Let's see... how about, 'Hello! How are you? How's your Gundam? Impressive as always, I presume. Killed many bad guys lately?'_ Quatre bowed his head to stifle an amused snort against his sleeve, receiving an odd look and raised eyebrow from Trowa. He coughed, attempting to cover his outburst. _Don't be daft,_ he admonished himself. _This is important._

While Quatre was still floundering for just the right words, Trowa surprised him by speaking. "We could help each other," he began in a soft, even tone, gently stressing 'could' to make it clear that the potential arrangement, was just that - only potential. 

Quatre sobered immediately, the delicacy of the situation weighing heavily upon him as he considered his reply. "We have complementary capability," he pointed out. 

"I agree. Whatever else may be between us, I respect your capability and skill." Trowa spoke frankly, and Quatre realised the compliment was genuine and not an attempt at manipulation through flattery. 

Quatre caught his breath and held it. If Trowa were going to be this direct with him, then he should be as straightforward as he could be too. A lot was riding on his ability to convince the other pilot that he was not being manipulated either. "But you're not sure you can trust me again? Is that the problem?" 

"Something like that," Trowa gave a vague smile. "But I think we..." He broke off with a sharp frown and turned abruptly as what sounded like a herd of feral monkeys began ascending the stairs. 

_Loud and drunk, feral monkeys,_ Quatre amended his estimation when a group of three twenty-something youths burst onto the deck. Two men and one woman dressed as backpacking tourists and smelling of alcohol, giggling and talking far too loudly stumbled over to the rail, oblivious to the platform's other two occupants. Quatre felt a light touch on his arm, which drew his attention back to Trowa whose fingers rested at his elbow. 

"We can talk later," the brunet said before removing his hand, heading back to the stairs, and disappearing below deck. Throwing a disappointed sigh over his shoulder, Quatre presently followed Trowa's lead and trudged back down to his cabin. 

  
  


Quatre missed breakfast the next morning. Disappointed that he'd overslept and had missed not only breakfast but also the ship's passage through the Straits of Gibraltar, Quatre struggled out of bed with a groan. Bleary eyed, he staggered to the window of his cabin, pulling the curtain back and looking out in curiosity. The deep blue of the Atlantic stretched, nearly featureless, as far as he could see, fading and blending with the paler blue of the sky at the horizon. Patchy clouds scudded above, indicating the presence of a strong wind. _I wonder if I'll get to see a storm at sea, he pondered idly,_ half hoping for such a dramatic event, but knowing that the owners of ships such as the Destiny spent fortunes on reliable weather prediction to avoid such complications. 

Determined not to miss any more of his day, Quatre hurried to shower, dress, and take some time to wander the decks of the ship before lunch. He received an impromptu tour of the engine rooms - a rather hellish catacomb of sublime and antiquated machinery - and found the swimming pool, sheltered inside on the main deck. It was small, but it would suffice. 

He saw Trowa only briefly that day, at lunch when he shared a table with the other pilot and a middle-aged couple who actually lived in Marseilles. Though their English was heavily accented, Quatre enjoyed hearing Claude and Marie tell of their multitude of voyages throughout their lives. Apparently, traveling by assorted cargo vessels had become a passion for them in their early twenties. Trowa remained quiet, but Quatre could see he was attending to their tales with great interest. 

The remainder of the day was restful and lazy for Quatre. Most of his time he spent at the prow of the ship soaking in the scenery and fresh air, hoping to spot any signs of indigenous sea life. In the evening he looked for Trowa, but the other boy wasn't to be found - at least not easily. _Maybe tomorrow we can talk,_ Quatre thought that night as he allowed the rhythm of the ship to lull him to sleep. 

  
  


He made it to breakfast the next morning, albeit a little late - too late to catch Trowa, in fact. He was just coming around the corner approaching the dining room when he saw the other boy exiting the corridor through an exterior door. Calling out to catch Trowa's attention was an option, but Quatre didn't feel comfortable pursuing the enigmatic pilot in such an overt fashion. Instead, he just watched Trowa leave, hoping their paths would cross later that day. 

After breakfast, where he ended up meeting the three backpackers (all of whom were nursing hangovers) more formally, Quatre wandered the decks aimlessly, hoping for such a chance encounter with Trowa. But still he didn't see him, nor was he at lunch that day. _He did say we could talk later. Is he avoiding me?_ Later, he went for a swim to burn off his frustrated energy. 

The ship was blessed with a small, well-stocked library of which Quatre decided to avail himself, in the desire to both fend off his increasing irritation at Trowa's elusiveness and his own encroaching boredom. There he briefly encountered the eighth passenger traveling aboard the Destiny. As he entered the library, a red haired man of indeterminate age looked up at him with ice blue eyes, but said nothing. Quatre made a move to speak a greeting until something in the man's demeanor made him hesitate. Instead he forced a smile and quickly turned his attention to the bookshelves grabbing the nearest text of interest - an art book of murals dating from when the Panama Canal was under construction - and hurried back to his room. 

At dinner that evening, Quatre was invited to sit at the Captain's table and was again stymied in his hopes to speak with Trowa. _If I didn't know better, I'd think there were a conspiracy afoot,_ he groused silently while listening to the Captain regale him with stories of pirates and historical drama on the high seas. Something peculiar caught his attention that evening, though his mind didn't linger on it for long since he was attending to the dinner conversation of the ship's officers. The red haired man seemed to be watching Trowa, and nothing in his eyes struck Quatre as remotely friendly. 

By the time the meal at the Captain's table had wrapped up, much to Quatre's dismay, Trowa was already gone. _I will find him tonight._ He checked to see if Trowa were in his quarters first. Then he went to the library, the officer's lounge, and walked around the deck - again. Eventually, Quatre had covered all the familiar territory of the ship, including a brief sojourn below deck, and was now experiencing more than a little annoyance. 

Stopping inside near the stairs for a moment, Quatre closed his eyes. It wouldn't be a violation of trust to just feel around for Trowa, surely. Quatre let his mind relax slightly, concentrating of the murmuring of emotion that existed as a constant background whisper in his mind. As he focused his attention he began to disentangle the threads of feeling around him, to discard the unlikely candidates in search of that calm balance he associated with Trowa - like a scent serving to identify the other boy. It was down - beneath him. Quatre opened his eyes and descended to the deck housing the crew lounge and crew mess. The engineers had invited him to join them one evening for cards - could that be what Trowa was doing? 

He found the door to the lounge and hesitated for a moment. Would the other pilot be upset at his presence? Or think that he'd been followed here? Not necessarily, after all, Quatre reminded himself, he had been extended an invitation. He put his hand on the cool metal of the door handle, took a breath, and entered. 

Although he was immediately assailed by a hazy cloud of tobacco smoke, Quatre managed to keep from coughing. _People still smoke that rubbish?_ He glanced about the room, taking in his surroundings before he made a decision. One man was sprawled on a long sofa snoring quietly with a magazine draped over his chest while in the corner three men and Trowa sat around a small round table. _He is here!_ Quatre sighed in relief, smiling as the brunet raised his eyes to meet Quatre's. 

"Hey, it's young Master Winner!" the bearded man seated to Trowa's right called out gesturing to Quatre to join them. It was Jim, Quatre recalled from his tour of the engine rooms. 

Seated on the other side of Trowa was Barney, who gave a pleasant wave. "Are you gonna join us tonight, kid?" 

"I was hoping to," said Quatre. 

"We'll see if you live up to your name," the third engineer, Stefan, teased in his thick German accent. 

"Please, call me Quatre..." He approached the table, meeting Trowa's eyes again. 

"Hello," the other pilot spoke softly in greeting, and seemed - if anything - pleased to see him. 

"Yeah, get over here, pull up a seat. We were just about to deal. Stefan can redistribute the chips." Jim gestured enthusiastically, while Stefan collected the chips on the table to divide them into fifths. Quatre grabbed the chair indicated and dragged it to position himself between Jim and Stefan, and opposite Trowa. 

"We're playing Jacks to Open - do you know that game?" Stefan asked as he counted out the blue chips. 

"Um, no, I don't.... I haven't actually played cards much," Quatre admitted with an embarrassed grin. "But I'd love to learn." 

"You know five card draw poker?" Jim prompted, shuffling the cards with an astonishing dexterity. 

"No, I'm afraid I don't..." 

"That's okay, the rules are simple enough - The skill is all in how the game is played." [4] 

Barney explained the game to Quatre, making sure the blond understood each point before going onto the next. Aside from keeping track of the jargon, there wasn't anything complex about playing - and it was easy to remember the ranking of the hands just by considering the probabilities of each arrangement. Declining the beer Jim offered him, opting instead for water, Quatre settled and waited for play to commence. 

As everyone anteed and Jim dealt the first hand, Quatre was interested to note the different ways each player handled their cards. Trowa allowed his cards to lie face down until he had all five, and then he picked them up to give them a bland examination. Barney eagerly collected each card as it was dealt to him, and made a big show of rearranging his cards with each successive addition to his hand. Stefan simply took his cards one at a time, arranging them in the order they were dealt, spreading them in a tight fan, which he held with both hands. Jim picked his cards up to look at them after he finished dealing, frowning at them contemplatively and then setting them back face down on the table. Quatre followed Stefan's lead during the deal. 

Quatre was pleased to end up with a pair of Kings in his first hand - but the other three cards were of no help, a Jack, a two, and an eight - each a different suit. Now Jim went around the table, asking each player if they could open. The rule was, someone could open only if he had a pair of Jacks or better. All three men before Quatre declined to open, so he had to. _Looks like I might have the best hand so far,_ he realised - though the option had never passed to Jim. 

"I'll open with ten," the blond said, placing his modest bet in the center of the table with the antes. 

Jim tossed his bet to the pile as he spoke, "I'm in." Trowa folded, leaning back in his chair; the others added their chips to the pot. 

Quatre asked for three cards in the exchange round, though he didn't receive anything helpful. Thinking about the odds of the game, a pair of Kings seemed like a fairly good hand, but Quatre wasn't confident. He noted a surge of pleasure as Jim examined the three cards he requested. Barney showed a single Ace and asked for four cards - optimism followed by disappointment came from the man as he examined his new cards. Finally Stefan asked for just two cards. _He's going for a straight or a flush,_ Quatre thought. _Or he's bluffing that he is?_

Trowa's eyes were on him, calmly observing. _He's evaluating me?_ Quatre met the brunet's gaze evenly but Trowa didn't look away, rather he quirked an eyebrow, and gave Quatre a miniscule, lopsided smile. 

The bet was to Quatre. Still feeling conservative about his pair of Kings, Quatre placed another white chip in the pot. 

Jim smiled at him, "I'll see your ten and raise you ten." Quatre nodded and looked to Barney, who folded. 

Stefan hesitated, pursing his lips and studying his cards, "I'll fold." 

Curiosity prompted Quatre to see the raise and call Jim's hand. Revealing three fours, the engineer won the hand, "Better luck next time, kid" he said with a wink, collecting his modest winnings as everyone tossed their cards back to him to shuffle and deal. 

Everyone anteed and received their cards; Quatre was disappointed with his lot - there weren't any strong possibilities even if he decided to draw new cards - an Ace, a King, and rubbish. Trowa on the other hand was radiating a quiet confidence and opened the bet with twenty. Hopeful, Barney stayed, while Stefan was nearly giddy with anticipation as he tossed his bet in and resumed a discreet fidgeting with his cards. Quatre folded in the wake of the emotions he detected from the others, and Jim stayed feeling comfortable with his hand. 

Asking for two new cards, Trowa's confidence increased to something bordering on smugness. Barney received two new cards as well, and feigned enthusiasm, but Quatre could detect his hidden disappointment. _He's trying to bluff, but Trowa's got a good hand._ Quatre turned his attention to Stefan as he nervously asked for just a single card indicating a strong potential for a flush or a straight. Turning over the new card, Stefan stiffened and rapidly stifled a grin. His emotions were now euphoric. _He got it._ Quatre struggled not to grin sympathetically, but rather looked back to Trowa, who was also observing Stefan's glee. Finally, Jim took three cards and indicated his disgust by taking one look and tossing the cards down onto the table in a preemptive fold. 

Quatre found himself leaning forward in anticipation as Trowa opened the next round with a bet of thirty. It was more than the previous openings had been, but not too much. _He's wanting to grow the pot, and since Stefan is so happy with his hand, he can do that - and find out just how confident Stefan is._ Predictably, Barney stayed in the game, rather recklessly in Quatre's estimation, but then, Barney didn't have the same insight as he did. 

"I'll see your thirty, and raise you fifty," said Stefan, tossing his chips into the pile with a clatter. 

Jim gestured at his cards dismissively, indicating he had indeed folded. 

Trowa deadpanned, "I'll see that and raise you another fifty." 

Barney, trying to exude confidence, met both raises. 

Stefan stared at Trowa, his eyes narrowing. "I'll call..." He carefully placed another fifty in front of him.

Quatre held his breath, waiting for Trowa to reveal his cards. _A straight flush? Four of a kind?_

Four queens were laid on the table. Stefan groaned in frustration tossing down his eight high straight. 

"Oh ho!" Jim crowed, "Four ladies _and_ a straight!" 

Spreading his cards on the table the third engineer confirmed Quatre's hunch. He had nothing. 

While the others offered him congratulations, and Stefan condolences, Trowa pulled the chips towards himself. Quatre was beginning to see the appeal of the game. 

The next few hands were dealt and discarded since no one could open the betting and the pot slowly grew from the antes. However, Quatre found himself feeling more confident, and was eager for a hand he could play with. His inexperience could be used to his advantage, he decided. 

When he was dealt two pair, Quatre began to feel quietly optimistic. It was far more likely to win this game with such a modest hand than with the far less likely but flashier sort. Although, Quatre did hope he'd get to see something like a flush or a full house in his own cards that evening. 

Trowa didn't open, so it passed to Barney who did, betting twenty. Promptly, Stefan folded; the man remained mildly irritable since his straight failed to win him the earlier round. Quatre put in his twenty, and then raised the pot by ten. A modest, but confident move, he hoped. Jim and Trowa both stayed, with Trowa feeling hopeful. 

Receiving three cards in the draw Barney swore softly, eliciting laughter from the other engineers and an amused look from Trowa. The emotion was genuine, Quatre anticipated Barney wouldn't stay in this hand long - despite his recklessness. Quatre received but one card, a King. He'd be able to bluff a straight, a flush, or a full house, he decided. It was worth a try. Jim was most pleased with his three cards and Trowa was, once more, optimistic after receiving two new cards. 

Barney folded. 

Now, eyes turned to Quatre. He pursed his lips thoughtfully and raised his eyes inquisitively, asking, "Which is higher? A flush or a full house?" 

Answering first, Jim said, "A full house." 

Quatre raised his eyebrows, nodded, and made his bet, "Thirty then. No... Forty." 

Jim stayed. 

Trowa regarded Quatre thoughtfully and then put his bet on the table before speaking in a carefully inflected, yet bland tone, "And I'll raise you forty." 

Eyes locked for seemed like an eternity, Quatre resisted a deeper reading of the brunet, relying only on surface feelings, body language, and past experience to evaluate the other pilot's strategy. _He knows I'm exaggerating my hand but is hoping to grow the pot and get Jim to fold. He must have a good hand though, so it's not a complete bluff._

"I'll fold," Quatre said and laid his cards down, refusing to lose any more of his chips to Trowa. 

Glancing between the two boys in puzzlement, Jim sighed in resignation, placing his hand face down in the table. "It's all yours," he said to Trowa. 

Again, several hands were dealt with no one able to open the betting until Quatre received with great pleasure two pair - Queens over Jacks. He was prepared to open the betting, but to his surprise, Barney did when the option passed to him. The man felt happy with his cards. Trowa was contemplative, Jim bored, and Stefan - still grumpy. 

Barney's bet had been twenty, modest, yet it was enough to begin encroaching on the dwindling piles of chips resting before most of the other players. So far, Trowa had accumulated the most winnings, while Barney intermittently glared at his sparse collection. However, Stefan was the only one to fold. The others stayed in but no one raised the bet. _Playing it safe, waiting for their new cards._

Exchanging but a single card, Barney didn't seem terribly interested in the card he received. _He's probably got two pair as well - but it's unlikely to be stronger than mine._ Quatre declined any new cards, deciding to let the others believe he had been dealt a strong hand. After showing an Ace, Jim drew four cards, which he seemed conservatively pleased with. Trowa exchanged two and was disappointed. 

In a bid Quatre deemed rather overzealous, Barney opened the next round of bidding with a bet of fifty. _He bets too much too quickly..._ Quatre frowned. Predicting that Jim and Trowa would fold regardless of what he bet, the blond met and raised Barney's bet by twenty. The other two did fold, Barney called, and the young pilot won the hand as he'd anticipated. _I think I'm getting the hang of this._ Quatre was pleased as he collected his winnings, stacking the colourful chips carefully before him. 

Eventually, each hand began to blend together. At times the pot would grow very rich - especially in the wake of several hands wherein no one could open. As Quatre settled into the give and take of the game, learning how to evaluate the strategies of the other players and to subtly vary his own in response, one by one the three engineers dropped from the game. Between he and Trowa, they won the majority of the hands. Quatre discovered that Trowa was most adept at carefully pacing his betting and choosing when to bluff versus when to fold in order to maximise the contributions of the other players to the pot. Whenever Trowa's hands were called, they were good, but a number of times, Trowa would win by scaring the others into folding, but his cards would not be revealed, leaving Quatre to wonder how often the other boy was bluffing. In fact, Quatre found it increasingly difficult for him to tell when the other pilot was bluffing. _He knows about my empathy,_ Quatre realised. _He could be manipulating that._

At times, Quatre found himself staying in the game longer than he should, adopting a strategy sympathetic to Trowa's, aiding the other boy in his game. Other times, Quatre began to feel as if Trowa were doing the same for him. He found himself under the enigmatic pilot's scrutiny quite often. And whenever Quatre's hand was genuinely good, it seemed as if Trowa were subtly aiding him in terms of how much the brunet bet, how he hesitated - or not. 

Once it was only he and Trowa however, it was apparent neither of them would prevail soon, it became more like a game of ping-pong with neither of them missing their strokes. Giving a jaw-cracking yawn, Jim interrupted, "I don't think anyone's going to win this one, kids - at least not tonight! We're all working men here and need to get some sleep, so why don't we start over again another night?" 

Both boys stayed to help tidy up after the game, and much to Quatre's delight he found Trowa leaving with him. They walked side by side in silence for a time before Trowa spoke. "Are you sure you've never played poker before?" he inquired with a sidelong glance at Quatre as they ambled down the corridor towards Trowa's cabin. 

The blond was exceedingly pleased to find Trowa in a receptive and amicable mood. Perhaps the relaxed setting of the ship was helping the other boy overcome his reservations. _Or it's just my stellar personality and good looks,_ Quatre silently joked to himself, though he couldn't ignore the feelings of attraction that he had been experiencing from Trowa any more than he could deny his own attraction to the other boy. 

Quatre laughed, partly at the oddity of the situation with Trowa, and partly in response to the brunet's question. "Quite sure," he confirmed. "Gambling's not something I was ever encouraged to pursue..." 

"It was a good game. I enjoyed it." The way Trowa delivered that statement, it sounded almost like a guilty confession. This puzzled Quatre, but then many things about Trowa were puzzling to him. 

"Me too. But I think I'll leave you guys alone next time. I don't think the others were having as much fun as we were." Quatre stopped with Trowa as he halted at the door of his cabin. 

"No, I suspect they weren't." Trowa's lips curved into a ghost of a smile, and he unlocked his door, "Did you want to come in for a minute?" 

"Yes... I've been wanting to talk to you for a while now." 

Trowa nodded and they entered the room, which was similarly appointed to Quatre's. Trowa turned on a lamp in the sitting area and perched on the arm of the sofa. "Do you always play to win?" 

Quatre sat in the chair near the sofa. "Not always, but most of the time." 

"And the other times?" 

"Sometimes it's a better strategy to just stop my opponent from winning." 

Trowa's smile broadened and he nodded. "Not many people understand that difference." 

"'Invincibility lies in the defense...'" quoted Quatre, interested to see Trowa's response. 

The other pilot continued smiling as he finished the quote, "'...the possibility of victory in the attack.'" 

_So we've both read Sun Tzu,_ Quatre realised, trying - and failing - to ignore the warmth blossoming inside him and the way he couldn't stop grinning at Trowa. _I really like him,_ he admitted. But there was still the matter of the New Edwards mission; Quatre didn't want to be distracted from that. Taking the direct approach, he prompted, "So, are we allies in San Francisco?" 

"I certainly don't want to be your opponent," was Trowa's cagey assent. 

"Nor I yours." Quatre acknowledged, and then pressed for a more overt commitment from Trowa, "We'll help each other then?" 

"As you said, two is better than one. So, yes." 

"Good!" Quatre spoke with more enthusiasm he had intended, wincing inwardly, and hoping he wasn't offending Trowa with his eagerness. 

Trowa wasn't offended, but he was growing uncomfortable. He stood, indicating their conversation was at an end. "I'll see you tomorrow then." 

"When?" asked Quatre, as he stood and moved toward the door. After the last few days of trying to track down Trowa, he was unwilling to leave such a meeting to chance. 

"After breakfast." Trowa spoke with promise in his voice. 

_Good, he wants to see me tomorrow. Maybe we can get to know each other better - we still have nine days._ "Ok, see you then. Good night, Trowa" 

"Good night... Quatre." 

  
------------  


tbc.

  
------------  


Notes: 

[1] Nearest freighter port to San Francisco - it's actually is a longer trip nowadays, but I'm assuming some tech advances in ship speed - even though they're still using older engine designs. 

[2] I'm using a photo reference of an actual cabin on a container ship to inspire Quatre's cabin here - I was surprised at how posh they really are! For more miscellaneous info on traveling by freighter check out:   
www.freightertravel.info 

[3] Want to see the Marseilles Port? Check out the Marseille Port Authority's web site at:   
www.marseille-port.fr/ANGLAIS/INDEX.HTM 

[4] For poker rules and info:   



	2. Destiny Chapter 2

Destiny Chapter 2   


] Earth - The Atlantic Ocean on the S.S. Destiny - Spring AC 195 [ 

  


Today the ocean was a slowly seething greenish grey under the accumulating cloud cover; the oppressive slate-coloured ceiling and diffuse light levels imbued the morning with a sense of lethargic drama. Even after months on the planet, the mutable character of the weather, the way the changes in temperature, humidity, and visibility permeated the entire feeling of a day, it still enthralled him. Each new morning Quatre greeted with anticipation, wondering what spectacle he'd experience next. 

"What did you want to talk about this morning?" Trowa's voice came from behind, where the other pilot was seated on the sofa. His soft, modulated tone melded with the atmosphere that affected Quatre's mood. 

Quatre didn't respond immediately. Instead he allowed his gaze to continue its lazy wandering over the sky and ocean framed by his room's solitary window, savouring the peculiar feeling of timelessness imposed by the invisibility of the sun just as he savoured the soothing, welcome presence of Trowa. Without a timepiece handy, he would not have been able to guess the time of day. It could be morning, or late afternoon. Regardless, it was a good time for a long, relaxed conversation. With a contented sigh he turned. "New Edwards, I suppose. That's a good place to start." 

With an affirmative inclination of his head, Trowa settled back on the couch, crossing one ankle over his knee. Quatre was pleased to see the other boy's posture so casual and open. Trowa took a sip from the mug cradled in his hands and spoke, "I'm not sure about this mission actually." 

Quatre frowned, and seated himself at the opposite end of the couch so he could maintain his view of outside. "How so?" he prompted. It was true that the scheduled OZ meeting at New Edwards was just that little bit too well publicised, not to mention, too convenient a target, but Quatre wanted to hear Trowa's thoughts before he contributed his own. 

"OZ is making this far too easy for us." Trowa replied, as if he'd read Quatre's mind. 

"Do you think it might be a trap?" was Quatre's next carefully spoken question. 

Trowa glanced at him, a small smile forming on his lips, "I think that's... not unlikely." 

"We need to go anyway," Quatre pointed out. "In case it is for real." 

"Obviously," said Trowa blandly. "We're on our way there." 

"But we should keep our eyes open and be prepared for deception," Quatre continued with what he suspected they were both thinking and smiled as Trowa picked up where he left off, their minds and thoughts progressing in an easy accord. 

"And even if it is what it appears to be, we'll be running into heavy resistance from OZ Specials. We no longer have the element of surprise on our side." 

"By providing such a tempting target, they'll definitely be expecting us," Quatre agreed. "And by forcing our deployment, they're rendering our past strategy useless." 

"Which was to use the element of surprise and randomness of objectives." Trowa nodded. "They have us where they want us this time." 

Quatre chewed his lip thoughtfully for a time, wondering whether he should mention the other units he'd monitored, the ones he suspected might be other Gundams. Sharing intelligence would be beneficial. He and Trowa shouldn't be keeping any secrets - plus, he wouldn't be surprised if Trowa were aware of them as well. "What about the others? The other potential Gundams?" 

"You've noticed them too?" It was a rhetorical question so Quatre only nodded briefly in response before Trowa continued. "If they're involved in either our version of Operation Meteor, or the original one, they'll be there." 

"You're right, we certainly don't know whose side they're on. Their targets have been like ours, but that - in and of itself - doesn't reveal much." 

"They could be like you and not even know about the Barton Foundation." 

"Or they could be our enemies." Quatre sighed, but then perked up a bit as he had an idea. "Perhaps we should launch our own attack late - after we give them a chance to show...?" he trailed off, curious again to see what Trowa would make of his suggestion. 

The other pilot continued Quatre's thought as if it had been his own, "That way we'll not only be able to establish a better estimate of their intentions and loyalties, but also, if they are enemies to us, their capability will be somewhat depleted, while we're fresh." 

"My thoughts exactly." Quatre grinned. 

"I like the way you think." Trowa returned the grin with his modest version. 

They lapsed into a reasonably relaxed silence for a time. Quatre counted this as progress in terms of his relationship with Trowa, who appeared to be content to just remain seated comfortably, sipping his hot drink and resting his eyes on the thickening rain clouds without. 

Presently, he turned to Quatre and spoke again. "There was something I wanted to ask you about. If that's all right?" 

"Oh?" Quatre was surprised, and curious, as to what Trowa could want to know about him. "I'll answer as best I can." 

"I was wondering why the Maguanac Corps aren't supporting you in this mission. Was it just a matter of conspicuity and logistics? Or something else?" 

_Of course he'd want to know about the Maguanacs._ Quatre shifted in his seat as he pondered his response, hoping that their absence didn't constitute a bad thing as far as Trowa was concerned - after all, forty extra mobile suits fighting on their side would be beneficial at New Edwards. Yet, Trowa's tone was only curious, not judgmental. "It was partly that. Getting forty mobile suits to San Francisco covertly isn't a trivial task," Quatre began with a casual gesture of one hand. "But more than that, they may fight for me, but I fight for the colonies. The colonies' fight isn't theirs, and since they represent the Independent Middle East Nations, I'm unwilling to involve them too deeply." 

"I can understand your concern. Especially since this mission will be so high profile." 

"As enthusiastically as they would follow me to New Edwards, I'd hate to see the conflict with OZ and the Alliance spread around the world the way it would if their support became too obvious." 

"Their loyalty to you is that strong?" Again, Trowa sounded merely curious. Despite his words, there was no incredulity in his tone. 

"Yes, it is," Quatre admitted, feeling uncomfortable at putting that simple fact into words. It felt too much like a boast, and suddenly he felt unworthy of the Maguanacs' devotion. Especially when he compared himself to Trowa, who was the more experienced - and probably more skilled, at least in Quatre's estimation - of the two Gundam pilots. 

"How did that happen?" was the next, somewhat abrupt question. Trowa seemed to realise his words could be construed as rude, and amended his query. "It's not that I don't think you're worthy of their loyalty, but they're from Earth; you're from L4. It just doesn't seem like a probable occurrence for you to have even met them, let alone be leading them." 

Quatre blinked in mild surprise. _So he knows I'm from the L4 colony._ Upon further reflection, though, Quatre realised he would have been more surprised if Trowa hadn't worked that out. _I guess that's not a significant deduction - I did tell him my name. He'd have to have been living in a cave not to recognise it. Still, Winner isn't that uncommon a name..._ Ceasing that line of thought, Quatre instead responded to Trowa's question. "Well, Rashid is really their Captain. I think of my position with them as more honourary. I never trained with the Maguanacs or anything. As to how I became involved with them? That's a long story." 

"I'd like to hear it, if you don't mind telling it." 

"Well," Quatre began, grimacing slightly. How much did Trowa want to know? Was he only interested in Quatre's experiences as a pilot or was his interest perhaps something deeper? "I was thirteen at the time, and on my way to Earth for the first time." Quatre paused half expecting Trowa to interrupt since he'd already told the other pilot this was his first time on the planet. But Trowa remained silently attentive. 

Taking a breath, Quatre continued, "Our family shuttles were intercepted by the Maguanac Corps to be used as temporary hostages until the Maguanacs could free workers who were being held unlawfully on the MO-III mining colony - workers from Earth." He settled back in his seat, his voice finding a more comfortable rhythm. "My father sympathised with their goals and agreed to their terms. Instructor H was one of the people held on MO-III - some of the people there were political prisoners, you see. He was a self confessed mad scientist, it was that day that I met him too." This last was punctuated by an absent smile as Quatre recalled his first meeting with the eccentric scientist. H had seemed quite interested in him even at that time. 

"Anyway, one of the Maguanacs turned out to be a traitor. I overheard him radioing Alliance space forces to come intercept not just the people returning to Earth, but our family shuttles as well." Quatre paused with a grimace. "I... I managed to take him by surprise. But I hadn't tied him up well enough. He grabbed a gun and fired at Rashid. I ended up between the bullet and Rashid and was injured as well - but not as badly." 

"How?" 

"I was trying to push him out of the way," Quatre shook his head at the absurd idea of his slight build having been enough to push Rashid anywhere. "The bullet still hit him, but only grazed me." Quatre unconsciously rubbed at that spot below his collarbone through the fabric of his shirt. 

"But that's not the end of the story?" said Trowa, leaning forward to set his empty mug on the table before turning on the couch to face Quatre. 

"No, not quite," Quatre shifted uncomfortably under Trowa's inscrutable gaze. He was proud of what he'd done that day, but it just felt odd to be relaying his supposed heroics to someone with Trowa's experience. But, he reminded himself, Trowa had asked. "Over one hundred Alliance Leos were converging on the family shuttles and the Maguanacs - their orders were to destroy everyone. The Maguanacs had thirty-eight able-bodied men and forty mobile suits so I volunteered to join them in the fight." 

"You had piloting experience?" 

"Sort of. Well, not really. I'd flown simulators and was really good at that, but, no, I'd never piloted a real suit. One of the drawbacks of coming from a pacifist family I guess." 

"Well, and only being thirteen at the time." 

"Yeah," Quatre chuckled. "And that. It's easy to forget sometimes." 

"So what happened? Did they let you fight with them?" 

"Most of them weren't very keen - after all, I was just a scrawny teenager. But Rashid convinced them. He put me in charge of his men, gave me his mobile suit, and um..." Quatre got up and quickly rummaged in his wardrobe to pull out his battered pair of flight goggles. "These." He held up the goggles before tossing them to Trowa who'd turned in his seat. 

Catching them easily, Trowa turned them over in his hands carefully. "These are antiques," he spoke almost reverently. 

"They were Rashid's own goggles," Quatre moved back to the sofa, sitting to face Trowa. "The previous Captain of the Maguanacs had given them to him. They belonged to the original founder of the Corps and had been handed down to subsequent leaders ever since. He gave them to me as a symbol of leadership." 

"He let you keep them. He must have been impressed." Trowa's elegant fingers traced the heavy stitching over the rich patina of the supple leather. 

"You could say that," Quatre found himself grinning, and his embarrassment vanished. He and Trowa, though their paths of getting to where they were now were quite different, at a deeper level, they were the same - both skilled pilots at an age when most people were only concerned about what movie they'd go see on the weekend. And here they were, outnumbered, fighting for a seemingly hopeless cause. Of all the people he'd known, Trowa was the one who would understand the significance of Rashid's gift the best. 

"So?" Trowa glanced up from his inspection of the goggles, one eyebrow raised expectantly and a miniscule smile gracing his lips. "What did you do that was so impressive?" 

"I led the Maguanacs to victory, and held off over twenty Leos by myself while they escaped back to Earth." 

Trowa's eyes widened slightly, "That is impressive." He passed the goggles back to Quatre, cradling the pair in both hands as if they might break. "You must be very proud." 

"I am," Quatre spoke softly, gazing down at the goggles in his hands, looking at them anew, and seeing their significance in a new light. "That day changed my life." 

Though Quatre sensed some lingering curiosity from Trowa, the other boy didn't question him further. "So, um, what about you? How did you come to be a pilot? You said you've been a soldier your whole life?" 

Trowa didn't answer immediately, a tiny frown creasing his brow. Staring out the window again, he spoke with little inflection, "I grew up with a band of rebel mercenaries on Earth. I learned a lot of skills while I was with them, including how to pilot." 

Sensing Trowa's comfort level rapidly evaporating, Quatre hesitated to respond to that information. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry." 

"It's okay, I asked you enough questions." 

"It's fine." He shrugged. Further questions for Trowa could wait for another day, Quatre decided, unwilling to push their budding camaraderie too far too soon. Still, he hoped to spend more time with Trowa and so mentally groped to find a reason for Trowa to stay. He spied the stack of thin plastic cases next to the vid screen, the films he'd borrowed from the Captain the previous day. It would be more fun to view them with company. "I borrowed some movies from the Captain, would you like to watch them with me?" 

Trowa looked at him in barely discernable surprise. "That sounds disturbingly normal," he remarked. 

Quatre chuckled, cocking his head to the side, "Don't you ever just say yes?" 

"Yes," replied Trowa slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching. 

Laughing, Quatre stood, "Well, decide which ones you want to watch. I'll go see if there's anything vaguely approximating junk food in the galley. Then it really will be a _normal_ experience." 

  
  


Quatre stumbled down to the pool the next afternoon after having slept through both breakfast and lunch. He and Trowa had stayed up into the wee hours watching everything from science fiction, to political thrillers, to historical epics. Morning had found him feeling bleary and thirsty. _That's the last time I eat that much salty garbage and drink that much soda,_ he admonished himself, yet smiled still. Though he and Trowa hadn't talked much more that day or evening, just the simple act of hanging out and doing something, that was, after all, exceedingly normal had felt good. 

The water was refreshingly cool as he slipped into the pool. Ducking his head under the surface before pushing off from the near wall to begin swimming laps, Quatre relished the buoyant freedom allowed by the water. As his muscles warmed and loosened, he achieved a comfortable pace and let his thoughts wander. He found himself regretting once more that he'd not had a more typical childhood in many ways. Instead of spending time with other children his age he'd been surrounded by high paid tutors and household servants. Truly, staying up late with a same-aged acquaintance watching vid discs had been no more a common occurrence for him than it had likely been for Trowa. Such activities hadn't been deemed proper for the Winner heir. All his father's efforts had been bent towards grooming his son to be a worthy successor, not allowing Quatre the absurd self-indulgences of play and friendships. 

But, he amended his train of thought; if he _had_ had a normal, average childhood then he'd likely be attending school right now on L4, not cruising across the Atlantic in preparation for a battle with OZ at New Edwards. A battle, which - if all went well - could mark a turning point in relations between the Earth governments and the colonies. In fact, the potential changes to his life were far too great, and on some level, Quatre had to acknowledge that without the way his father had continually pushed him, he might not have developed the very strength of character that had allowed him to defy his father. If he had enjoyed deeper familial connections and friendships, would he have even been able to leave? 

Slowing his strokes, Quatre paddled to the edge of the pool and climbed out. He chuckled at the irony of his thoughts as he collected his towel and dried off. _You did your job too well, Father._ He wondered briefly if his father would be proud of him now, even though they had parted ways as far as their beliefs went, maybe - just maybe - his father could be proud anyway. A small voice inside told him no, and Quatre experienced a wave of melancholy guilt as he wrapped his towel about his waist. _But, I believe in what I'm doing,_ he reminded himself. _I'm doing the right thing. It doesn't matter how he feels about it._

_He's just too blind to see I'm doing this for him, for the family, for everyone being hurt in the colonies._ Quatre padded to one of the unobstructed windows of the room housing the pool. It had started raining; a slow and steady shower combined with the occasional gust of wind shoving a dense cloud of moisture against the glass. Visibility was low, and Quatre shivered at the dank, somber atmosphere. He grimaced, feeling his eyes sting with tears. No effort had been made by anyone in his family to track him down after he left - as far as he could tell. Given how opposed his father had been, Quatre had expected that the man would have been quick to try to collect his errant heir. _I guess he has abandoned me. He truly doesn't care. He'll just have to grow a new successor._

It was likely none of his sisters even knew he'd left since none of them had been living at home at the time. Further, there was little communication among family members. Even with twenty-nine sisters, Quatre had met but a scant handful and really only knew Caitlin and Theodora, the two youngest who were still on L4 working at the main WE offices - and even they were a good decade older than he was. 

Briefly, Quatre contemplated writing to Theodora; she'd always been the most sympathetic and supportive when he was young. At the least, he'd like to let her - and via her, his other sisters - know where he was, and what he was doing. But, like his father, they shared a commitment to the ideals of Total Pacifism. Perhaps it would be preferable to remain silent, and simply let his actions speak for themselves - eventually. 

"Oh well," Quatre muttered to himself before exiting the pool and returning to his quarters. He indulged in a long, hot shower before dressing and heading down to the library. A cold, rainy day struck him as a good sort of day to lose himself in a book. And it would be a good way to distract himself from the unpleasant turn his thoughts had been taking that afternoon. 

Entering the library, now dressed in a pair of soft, well-loved jeans and a loose, button up shirt in a plush, teal corduroy, Quatre was pleasantly surprised to see Trowa. The tall pilot was curled up in one of the overstuffed armchairs next to the window. His boots sat on the floor nearby, and his sock clad feet were tucked beneath him as he sat with a paperback book face down in his lap, his attention fixed out the window. 

Trowa glanced toward him, speaking a soft, "Hi" before picking his book back up and shifting in the chair to rest his back against one armrest. 

"Hi," Quatre returned the greeting, fidgeting with the untucked hem of his shirt as he approached the bookcase containing historical texts. He could feel Trowa's attention fixed on him, curious and uncertain. "Lovely weather, isn't it?" he asked over his shoulder, hoping to start a conversation. 

"I like the rain. It's very soothing." 

"I guess I'm not used to this much water. It's rather overwhelming," said Quatre as he made a selection and moved to sit in the chair opposite Trowa. "Though, I must admit, much to my father's displeasure, I used to love to play in the summer rains on L4." 

"Your father is Charles Winner?" 

"Yes," Quatre replied with a sigh, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. "The one and only." Today was evidently doomed to consist of thoughts regarding his father. 

Trowa's steady regard was unreadable, as the brunet remained silent for a time before speaking in a tone of mild interest. "How does the only son and heir of such a well known pacifist family come to be piloting a Gundam in this conflict? Your father is very vocal in his advocacy of Total Pacifism." 

Quatre scowled, but answered anyway. "My father and I don't see eye to eye on very many issues. Especially this one." He paused, reflecting on his thoughts earlier in the day, finally putting into words the thing he knew he could no longer deny, "I disinherited myself to fight." 

Trowa seemed to have picked up on the unhappiness underlying that statement. His tone was gentle. "That's a big sacrifice, to give up your family, wealth, and status." 

With a firm shake of his head, Quatre affirmed his commitment to his actions. "I don't think so. Not compared to what others have sacrificed - even unwillingly. Too many people have died in the colonies; too many people are living in oppression and fear." His next words came out with more vehemence than he intended, "If we don't fight this war, it'll never end. And if _I_ don't fight, someone else would have to. I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't." 

"How so?" Trowa set his book aside, turning in his seat to face Quatre more comfortably. 

The answer was easy; Quatre had spent far too much time engaged in futile arguments with his father over this very same issue. "I still basically consider myself to be a pacifist, but with people - innocents - suffering around me, I could no longer justify to myself - to my own conscience - remaining passive and idle." Since his father wasn't the one he was addressing now, Quatre's voice did not falter as he continued, "If they die because I choose inaction, then I'm responsible for their deaths since I have the ability to fight to protect them." 

"And what would your father's response to that be?" Trowa pressed, but his voice held no hostility. 

"He would tell me that all lives are of equal value, and that choosing to kill so that another may live is the real hypocrisy. But then, my father would choose an unjust peace over a just war." 

"You believe war is just? Or that it can be?" 

"Well, yes," Quatre spoke in mild surprise. "If I didn't believe that, I wouldn't be fighting. War as a means to the right end can be just, and for me, that end is peace." 

"Peace," Trowa said the word slowly, as if it had never crossed his tongue before. "I'm not convinced it can ever be achieved." 

Quatre was stunned into silence for a moment. Did Trowa really believe that, or was he simply playing Devil's Advocate? "Then why fight? I mean - you must have some goal?" 

"I do," Trowa admitted with his trademark miniscule smile. "But it's nothing so grand." The smile vanished. "I fight for the individuals, I guess. For every child who's lost their parents, for every family who's lost their home, their livelihood. For the dreams of others." 

"What about your own dreams? Wouldn't you like to see peace in the Earth Sphere?" Quatre pressed the other pilot, confused and disturbed by the return of Trowa's weary fatalism 

"A soldier can't afford dreams like that, not really. Dreams are for the people who'll survive this war." Trowa's response was delivered in near monotone. He sighed, glancing away. "But, yes, it would be nice to see peace, and maybe it can be attained, but how do you maintain it in the face of human greed and human need?" 

"Don't you think peace is at least a worthy goal to fight toward since even if you fall short, you've probably made the world a better place in the process?" 

"There are worse reasons to go to war," Trowa shrugged. "Like the original Operation M. It was motivated only by revenge, and nothing good could come of that." He frowned, his features pensive. "But I think, for war to be truly eliminated, you have to not only give people reasons to stop fighting, but also remove the reasons that they do fight. And I just can't see that happening." 

"I agree with you in part," Quatre was relieved to find some philosophical middle ground between them. "Stopping war isn't as simple as throwing down the weapons. That's where my father is wrong. He thinks discussion and disarmament are enough. It's not - at least not at this stage. The commitment to peace needs to happen at a much deeper level." 

"So you think war can bring peace?" 

"The right kind of war can." 

"The right kind of war?" 

Again, Quatre found snippets of angry exchanges with his father entering his mind, but he forced his tone to stay even as he explained, "Well, it has to be motivated by something right, something moral - like achieving peace, and it has to be conducted properly so that its goals are truly accomplished." Trowa raised a skeptical eyebrow, so Quatre hastily amended, "and it doesn't cause more sorrow and suffering than it protects people from." 

Trowa shook his head in disagreement. "From my experiences, war is hell. It brings out the very worst in people. I don't see how war can be conducted in such a civil or surgical fashion." 

"There are international laws governing the appropriate conduct of war, you know," Quatre said, wincing at the naïveté implicit in those words. War crimes still occurred, it was foolish to believe otherwise. But then, believing in this cause was important. "And don't you think war can also bring out the best in people - the heroism, nobility, and honour of war?" 

"Heroism?" Trowa's mouth curled into a sarcastic grimace. "Most of the time people do what they do to try to survive," he asserted. "They might have signed up because of their ideals, but most of the time, when they're facing their death, ideals vanish, and they're only thinking of survival. There's nothing noble about watching your friend's entrails spilling out, or having to deliver the _coup de grace_ [5] to a horrifically injured enemy." Trowa's words were accompanied by the conviction of someone who had borne witness to such events. 

His own convictions growing belabored, a wave of sadness overtook Quatre. Who was he to try to convince Trowa of his sheltered ideals? "Even you? You only think of surviving?" 

Trowa shrugged. "I don't expect to survive any longer. I fight to achieve my objectives. If I do survive, it's a bonus. I don't think people should fight who aren't willing to die, and I've been doing this too long to believe I'm immortal." Trowa fixed him with an intense stare, "I've seen every soldier I've ever fought beside die, Quatre. All of them." 

No appropriate response to that last statement came to mind. Quatre fidgeted for a moment, wondering if he really was too naive and idealistic. "It sounds like you're lucky to still be alive," he said lamely. 

"Perhaps. Nowadays, I make my own luck." Trowa turned his attention to his book, and Quatre took that to mean their conversation was finished. 

Although he was unhappy leaving things with Trowa on a potentially prickly note, the little Quatre could glean regarding the other boy's feelings on the matter indicated that he wasn't at all bothered by the exchange. It was perfectly natural that they have different views towards war, Quatre decided, since they each came from such different backgrounds. _Maybe we can each learn something from one another?_ Quatre cheered at that realisation. He'd never been able to disagree with his father without the discussion turning into an ugly argument, which would irrevocably escalate into something that left him feeling rejected and judged. The exchange with Trowa had been more of an intellectual exercise. Such a thing could only foster more respect, not less, Quatre concluded, and found himself smiling contentedly, as he opened his own book and began to read. 

  
  


Late the following night found Quatre drifting in pleasant near-sleep bliss. Barely registering the quiet knock at the door of his cabin, he struggled to open his eyes and sit up, momentarily disoriented and off balance by the still somewhat unfamiliar layout of his quarters. The knock sounded again, more firmly, and a muffled tone spoke, "Quatre?" 

_Trowa._ Quatre immediately recognised the voice and the last remnants of his drowsiness were quickly banished as he stood, stepping quickly to the door and unlatching it. "Trowa?" he inquired as the tall boy fixed him with an odd expression. Quatre didn't dare hope Trowa was here for just him, but he nevertheless experienced a brief flush of excitement seeing the tall, graceful form standing patiently in the corridor. 

"Did I wake you?" he asked, eyes traveling over Quatre's state of attire. 

The blond felt a subdued stirring of apprehension, arousal, and the frustratingly ever-present discomfort from Trowa as he opened the door wider and gestured for the other pilot to enter. "Well, it is late. But, no, I wasn't quite asleep yet. Come in." He stepped back and Trowa moved past him smoothly and seated himself without preamble at the end of the spare twin bed closer to the door. "What is it?" Quatre shut the door and latched it once more, moving to collect his dressing gown and pull it over his pyjamas. 

In answer Trowa held out a slip of paper towards Quatre. "Did you write this?" 

"Aren't we full of questions tonight," Quatre teased mildly and met Trowa's eyes with a smile as he took the offered item. Trowa was slightly anxious; Quatre found his curiosity roused. "What is this?" 

He unfolded the paper and scanned it briefly. It read, 'You're not the real Trowa Barton. I know who you are.' 

"I found it on the floor of my cabin tonight. Did you write it?" 

"No. I mean, I already know Trowa's not your real name. You told me that." 

Trowa nodded silently and frowned, pursing his lips into a thoughtful grimace before speaking again, "That's what I thought." 

"So, um, who are you then - in this context?" Quatre pressed, a prickle of apprehension trickling down his spine. If someone on board knew about them, about the Gundams... 

"That's a good question," the brunet acknowledged, cutting off Quatre's train of thought with a short, humourless laugh before standing and moving to the starboard window of Quatre's cabin. He pulled the curtain back and peered out, seemingly lost in thought. 

Quatre moved to sit on the low sofa of the chamber. "You really don't have a name?" 

"Not that I know of, no." Trowa turned and dropped the curtain as he spoke, briefly moving his hand to comb his bangs back from his face. Quatre had a fleeting, unimpaired glimpse of the boy's handsome features before the gentle fall of hair returned to it's habitual arrangement. 

Sadness and resignation followed in the wake of that admission - or was it merely an acknowledgment? Opening his mouth to say something, _anything_, vaguely comforting, Quatre stopped himself. No words could really suffice; instead the blond pressed ahead with the more immediate concern. "So, what does this mean? 'I know who you are.' What were you doing before, Trowa?" 

"I was working as a mechanic on Heavyarms for the Barton Foundation - as I've mentioned." Sighing, the other pilot leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest as he did so. "Before that, I was on Earth with the mercenary band I told you about." Quatre forced himself to ignore the bitterness in both Trowa's voice and emotion as he continued, "But none of them are still alive." 

"So," Quatre began slowly. "Maybe someone from the Barton Foundation is here?" 

"That's what has me worried - if it's someone from there. I didn't leave on good terms." 

"There was... "Quatre began, feeling his breath catch as he started to put the pieces together, "There has been, rather, a guy watching you. I noticed him on a few occasions." 

"You're sure?" 

"Yes," he nodded firmly. "The red haired man. He always feels," Quatre paused, fumbling for the right word, but not wanting to alarm the other pilot unnecessarily. "Interested when he sees you. Like a sudden anticipation sort of feeling." 

"What else? Anything dangerous?" Trowa unfolded his arms, and stepped closer, adding quietly, "I don't recognise him." 

"Perhaps. It's hard to tell," Quatre sighed, meeting Trowa's intent gaze. "I haven't been prying. Ever since you - well, I'm making more of an effort to control my own curiosity about people." 

The taller boy moved to the sofa and crouched before Quatre, his face grim, yet his posture pleading. "Quatre," he began, reaching to touch the blond tentatively on the knee. "Would you - could you - maybe pry a little bit? Please? I know it's a lot to ask, but, if you could tell...?" Trowa broke off, mild embarrassment washing off him. 

_If he's worried, I should be too._ "Yes," he acquiesced. "I can do that. I'll do it for you." Trowa's eyes narrowed; he stiffened, and removed his hand from where it rested on the blond's knee. But before he could speak again, Quatre hastily clarified, "For _both_ of us. He could be with OZ or some Alliance intelligence agency." 

Trowa relaxed visibly and managed a small smile, his features softening slightly. "Thank you." 

Quatre forced his hands to remain immobile as he experienced a sudden urge to reach out and touch the other boy - to brush the veil of hair from his face and see his entire expression clearly. "We're helping each other, now. Right?" 

"Yes. We are." Trowa's smile broadened a tiny fraction, the rest of his features arranged sympathetically. For an instant - but only an instant - Quatre sensed the other pilot's guard drop, and in that millisecond he felt as if he'd perceived some sacred glimpse of Trowa's soul as he searched those intent green eyes for more insight. But the moment was too brief; Quatre stifled a frustrated grimace. The other pilot's reserve and discomfort continued be an enigma, especially in the context of the other feelings he sensed from Trowa - feelings he knew were directed at him. 

Quatre smiled brightly despite his consternation. "Okay, then. So we should both be alert, in case this guy isn't working alone." 

The moment truly had passed. Trowa was all business once more as he spoke, "And maybe we can figure out who he's working for?" 

Quatre nodded and posed his own query, "Do you think the note was a warning?" 

Trowa stood, his face drawn into a pensive mask, "I'm not sure. Maybe. But why would he warn me?" He turned away, approaching the window again. 

Quatre shrugged, "I have no idea. It seems counterproductive. But then, we don't know what he wants. Maybe he just wanted to see your reaction to it?" 

"Oh," Trowa fidgeted silently with the drapery for a time, lost in thought. "We should be careful then, not to appear that we're working together." 

"Agreed. We can meet like this? Late? Here?" 

"Okay." 

Quatre bit his lower lip thoughtfully, considering the current situation and trying to anticipate future events despite the lack of information. "We're close to the canal crossing. If he's going to make a move, he'll probably do it then - or on either side of the canal - where he can escape the ship quickly if he needs to." 

"Yes, that's what I'd do," Trowa concurred, but he sounded distracted, down even. 

Quatre remained focused on the dilemma, hoping to coax Trowa from whatever melancholy appeared to be gripping the tall pilot, "Maybe we can find a way to draw him out sooner?" 

"I don't know. It depends what he wants." There was resignation from Trowa again. Quatre was finding it a fairly common state for him. 

Keeping his response brief in hopes of encouraging Trowa to elaborate, Quatre spoke simply in agreement. "True..." 

But, Trowa was disinclined to continue the conversation. He frowned slightly and spoke softly. "I'll go now, I guess. Thank you, Quatre." 

"You don't need to thank me, Trowa." Quatre stood, offering the other boy a smile. 

"Good night, then." Trowa moved to the door meeting Quatre's eyes only briefly, and with little expression. 

"Good night. And, Trowa?" 

"Hm?" 

"Watch your back." 

"I will." 

  
  


The following morning, Quatre made his way to the officer's mess feeling overly charged with nervous energy. He had to admit he was scared, scared of who the man was watching Trowa, and fearful of what that man might intend toward Trowa, or toward himself. Even though Quatre had restrained himself from prying below the surface of the stranger's emotions, he had nevertheless been disturbed by the way in which the man had watched Trowa. Quatre was grateful - and somewhat flattered - that Trowa had decided to turn to him for help. It might have been motivated by the other pilot's pragmatic sensibility, but it still was demonstrative of an increasing bond of trust between them. 

Entering the mess, his eyes skimmed over Trowa's unobtrusive presence, seated at a table by one of the three windows, alone, reading quietly accompanied by a steaming cup of coffee and a half eaten plate of eggs and toast. _He's always reading,_ Quatre noted with some amusement. The other pilot did not look up or acknowledge Quatre's arrival in any fashion. The blond moved to seat himself and noticed the red haired man was sitting nearby. He perhaps stared too long at the man because soon pale blue eyes glanced up and met Quatre's gaze. _Damn it._ Quatre chilled at the coldness in them, but smiled pleasantly and inclined his head to the man in greeting. The returning smile did nothing to warm the man's features, but Quatre saw his lips move in a silent 'Good Morning', before he looked away, reorienting his attention to Trowa. 

How can he stand it? _Knowing that man is watching him like that?_ Quatre wondered. It seemed much less discreet an activity now that he knew the man was actively observing Trowa, and not just out of idle curiosity. But Trowa remained impassive and calm, absently reaching for his mug and taking a sip, placing it back on the table before slowly turning a page, and cocking his head to continue reading. _Don't gawk at him,_ Quatre reminded himself, forcing his attention on the breakfast menu on the table. It was the same as every morning, but it was at least somewhere to visibly orient his attention while he relaxed his mind, allowing his unique sense of emotion to expand, seeking out the object of his curiosity. The surface was what he expected, interest. Delving deeper, Quatre found excitement and intention. But intention to do what? Frowning in concentration, Quatre struggled to filter the louder, surface feelings to find what lay beneath. Sensations intruded at the periphery of his mind - not just the red haired man's emotions, but boredom from the steward that morning, contentment from Claude and Marie who were also seated by a window, and finally patient concern from Trowa. Finally, he caught a fleeting whiff of the motivating emotions. Hatred. Hatred and anger. 

Hastily, Quatre retreated from the other man's psyche, blinking several times in disorientation. _Hatred? What did Trowa do?_ Taking several slow, even breaths, Quatre relaxed, focusing his consciousness on his physical awareness, the smells of coffee and breakfast foods, the hard surface of the chair in which he was seated, the sound of cutlery clinking against porcelain, the background thrum of the ship's engines, the expanse of ocean beyond the window, and the slightly bitter, mineral aftertaste of the water he sipped. All these details served to anchor his space-heart, and protect him from the surrounding emotional noise. 

After his experience of the unsavoury emotions directed toward Trowa from the red haired man, Quatre found his appetite had abandoned him. He nibbled perfunctorily at some dry toast from the plate he was served and drank his tea before leaving the rest of his food untouched and working his way down a few flights of stairs to the main deck level. 

A brisk wind had picked up and the crests of the waves surrounding the ship were peaked with white. Quatre zipped up his windbreaker before giving the exit door a solid push and stepping into the stiff breeze. Few clouds marred the perfect cerulean of the sky above and the boy found himself quickly fishing in his pocket for his sunglasses. 

He'd never get used to this, he decided, the majesty of the living planet, her vast oceans spanning as far as he could see, faultless and deep blue merging with the dome of the heavens unfurled above. The wind tugged his hair away from his face, locks flapping playfully about his head as he meandered to the narrow portside promenade [6] and began to make his way to the prow of the ship. 

Quatre wrinkled his nose in distaste as a sudden shift in the wind brought a cloud of dense, black exhaust from the smokestack low over the deck. He coughed at the acrid, foul stuff, ducking his head until the wind shifted again. Not for the first time since coming to Earth did Quatre question the poor advances here compared to space. It felt as though technological advancement were on an indefinite hiatus - unless it was advancement to benefit the military powers of course. But to still be burning petrochemicals to move cargo? That was absurd. He knew better engine designs existed; better fuels existed. Maybe it was time for the children of the colonies to look back to their progenitors and reinvest in their ancestral home. 

Increasing the speed of his walking, Quatre moved to outpace any further assaults by the freighter's exhaust and hurried to the prow, his path flanked by the near solid of wall of massive shipping containers piled five high on his right, and the sparkling ocean on his left. Finally coming to the bow of the vessel, Quatre moved as far forward as he could and sighed in pleasure as the vista before him became unencumbered by the architecture of the ship which bore him effortlessly across the Atlantic. Leaning over the rail he peered down into the wake washing off the prow of the ship. No dolphins or porpoises. He frowned in disappointment. The crew had said this time of year was good for spotting the playful mammals as they rode the ship's wake. Quatre was beginning to suspect they only appeared when he wasn't looking. He'd already spent an inordinate amount of time hopefully staring over the side of the rail, straining to see any sign of life. 

A chill rippled up Quatre's spine when he heard footsteps approaching. He stiffened and straightened, detecting the now recognizable presence of Trowa's observer. _Relax, Quatre,_ he instructed himself, adopting a casual posture and not turning, despite the fact that every nerve in his body was screaming a warning. _He hasn't been watching you. It's Trowa he's after._ The man behind him felt curious; it was a cold curiosity, but not malicious - yet. 

"Enjoying the view?" came the query behind him. The man's tone was brittle with the awkwardness of a person who disliked engaging in small talk. 

_What does he want with me?_ Quatre's mind panicked, but the blond plastered on his best spoilt billionaire's son smile and turned, gushing, "Oh yes, it's just gorgeous!" 

The returning smile was more of a grimace than anything else. The red haired man moved to stand near Quatre at the railing, leaning back against it and fixing the boy in place with his unnaturally pale coloured eyes. "I'm Dominic Carvey," he said, extending his hand toward Quatre. 

"Quatre Winner," the pilot returned the greeting enthusiastically, offering a limp hand to be shaken. "It's a pleasure." 

"Winner?" Carvey asked slowly as suspicion narrowed his eyes, "Of the L4 Winners?" 

"Oh yes!" Quatre spoke, willing his smile even more dazzling and vacant, "You've heard of us, here on Earth?" 

Carvey's mouth quirked in mild distaste as he relinquished Quatre's hand. "I'm not from Earth. I'm visiting from the colonies as well." 

"Oh, which one? I've only been to L4 and L1 - but I've always wanted to see the new cities on L3. I hear they're beautiful at night." 

"L3, actually. It's nice enough, I suppose." 

"Well, what a happy coincidence then, that we've met. How likely is it really to meet a fellow colonist on a transatlantic crossing like this?" Carvey's eyes narrowed again, their aspect chilling and reptilian. _Damn it, I hope he's buying this._ Quatre gritted his teeth behind his smile waiting for the man to respond. 

"What about that other boy? The one your age. I've seen you talking with him." The man's tone took a turn toward sinister, and Quatre experienced a wave of something predatory from the man. Eager and hungry. 

Quatre forcibly ignored it and continued in his vacuous act. "Oh, him? He says he's from Earth. Rather quiet and dull fellow really." Quatre pitched his voice lower as if confiding a secret, "But I was nevertheless delighted to find such a lovely boy my own age traveling too." Quatre sighed happily while he winced inwardly. Though it wasn't a stretch to imply his particular interest in Trowa, he couldn't help but feel he was betraying the integrity of that interest by presenting it to a hostile stranger in such a superficial - and crude - fashion. _He's definitely suspicious. Please, let him think I'm just a decadent, little dilettant._

"And what _does_ bring someone like you to travel by freighter on Earth, alone?" 

_Alone, good, keep thinking I'm alone._ "Well," Quatre began brightly as his mind scrambled for something that would be suitably innocuous and also credible. _Someone like me?_ He pondered while he cultivated an embarrassed air, willing himself to blush and hoping he was succeeding. "I came to Earth to get away from my father. There are aspects of my, ah, lifestyle that he does not approve of, you see." 

Carvey blinked at him, a sickly smile twisting his lips as he reached the conclusion Quatre had hoped. Still, the man continued to press him, his body language and tone radiating impatience. "And you're traveling by freighter, why?" 

_Now he's truly stretching the bounds of good etiquette, time to get offended._

Quatre huffed melodramatically, and coloured his tone with condescension. "I don't see why it's your business, sir. But if you must know - it's the romance of the thing. Sailing the seas as travelers once did. And it's refreshing to get away from all the trappings of society, you know." He gave the man an appraising look and wrinkled his nose, "Though, you probably wouldn't." 

The man bristled visibly, and then laughed. "Did Daddy cut off your allowance?" he sneered in a derisive tone. The man radiated a sort of dark amusement as he finally dismissed Quatre as the persona portrayed. "Tough luck, kid." He stepped away from the railing, laughing to himself and muttering something unintelligible under his breath. 

Quatre affected an indignant sputtering as the man walked away until Carvey passed out of sight around the rows and columns of shipping containers. 

Once alone, the boy turned back to the rail, sagging against it, taking slow, deep breaths as the nervous knot of his stomach unwound into nausea. Even on a superficial level, the man was distasteful, and he'd been tenacious too. Staring down at the water again, Quatre allowed himself to become lost in the rhythm of the water breaking away from the tapered prow as it cut smoothly through the waves below. Grimacing while his stomach lurched rebelliously, Quatre swallowed hard and took several ragged gulps of air. 

Then there was calm. Without thinking, Quatre wrapped that increasingly familiar feeling of balance around him. He started briefly as a light thump sounded behind him, but he wasn't afraid. Turning slowly, his eyes alighted upon Trowa, who was just standing up from a crouch. Presumably, he'd just leapt down from the top of the nearest containers. "Are you okay?" the tall pilot asked, frowning slightly in concern. 

Giving Trowa a wan smile, Quatre nodded and pulled himself back together. In the face of Trowa's collected and controlled demeanor, the blond felt uncomfortable displaying his own vulnerability. He cleared his throat, glancing at the height of the stack Trowa had been atop. "How'd you get up there?" 

The corner of Trowa's mouth twitched in a brief lopsided grin, but his eyes still held worry. Approaching Quatre, he spoke, "That would be telling." 

"I thought we were supposed to be avoiding each other?" 

"When I saw that man following you, I wanted to make sure you'd be okay." 

"I can take care of myself." 

"I don't doubt it. But we're helping each other now, right?" Trowa echoed Quatre's words from the previous night, but it wasn't mocking. 

Quatre smiled, "Yes, we are." 

Trowa turned away from Quatre, squinting as he gazed out across the expanse of water, and the wind whipped his hair back. At length he spoke again. "I don't think I need to be an empath to see that guy was being rather unfriendly toward you." 

"No. He feels very dangerous. His intentions toward you are probably... violent, I think." Quatre studied Trowa carefully for a reaction; the other pilot's features remained impassive. "But, he's overconfident and not very subtle. His name is..." 

"Dominic Carvey, from L3. I overheard." Trowa offered a brief apologetic smile before continuing, "That was quite a performance you put on. Do people always underestimate you so readily?" 

"Oh, he didn't though. He was definitely suspicious of me." 

"I'm glad you convinced him you're harmless." 

"It's the blond hair and youthful charm," Quatre joked. 

Trowa chuckled softly in response, and the two lapsed into an easy silence for a time, each content to simply enjoy the fresh sea breeze and the view. Again, it was Trowa who broke the silence. "It's beautiful isn't it?" 

"Yeah," Quatre sighed, marveling anew at the colours and textures of the ocean, the way its mood and aspect changed so dramatically with the weather and time of day, "It reminds me of the desert in a way - ever changing, desolate, and beautiful. It's incredible." 

"It's too bad we're too far north to see a wandering albatross." Trowa's tone was wistful. 

Quatre cocked his head, studying his companion more closely. "You were born on Earth, weren't you?" 

"Yes." 

Quatre waited for the Trowa to continue. When he didn't, the blond redirected the conversation back to the current predicament. 

"So, um, you think this guy is from the Barton Foundation?" 

"I think that's the most likely scenario." Trowa's expression hardened. "Quatre, do you have a gun?" 

"Yes, I do." 

Trowa nodded, satisfied, and turned to leave. "Good. I'll see you later." 

Quatre watched the other pilot's departure, feeling the comfort of Trowa's calm recede. Relinquishing his tentative contact with Trowa's emotional state, the boy began to wonder at the other pilot's evident concern about him. A tiny spark of hope blossomed, though Quatre wasn't certain he wanted to acknowledge it just yet. 

  
------------  


tbc.

  
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Notes: 

[5] coup de grace means, roughly, 'killing blow' 

[6] I'm not sure if this is a valid deck configuration on a container ship in this century, but maybe in AC 195? 


	3. Destiny Chapter 3

Destiny Chapter 3 

] Earth - The Atlantic Ocean on the S.S. Destiny - Spring AC 195 [ 

  


Quatre looked at his watch; it was well past midnight. Trowa was late. _I shouldn't have left him after lunch._ Feeling his stomach sink with dread, he tried to reassure himself that Trowa was more than capable of taking care of himself. Still, the man, Carvey, was dangerous - and arrogant. All he needed was a convenient opportunity to carry out his ill intent. Quatre swallowed and stood, pacing his cabin. He absently removed the compact automatic pistol from the holster concealed under his vest, verifying it was loaded and cocked yet again. He fidgeted with the gun briefly, checking the safety on the slide, before replacing it with a sigh. Quatre had only ever fired it at paper targets, and he hoped he wouldn't flinch should he need to use the weapon in defense of himself or his new friend. _He is a friend, isn't he?_ Quatre wondered. Though, he hoped for a deeper relationship with Trowa, acknowledgment of friendship would be a good start. 

It was nearly one o'clock. _Should I go look for him?_

So lost in his worries was Quatre that he jumped when an abrupt knock sounded at his door. "Please be Trowa", he whispered, unlatching the door with a shaky hand, and drawing his pistol. "Who's there?" he asked more loudly, flicking off the safety on his gun. 

"Who were you expecting?" was the low reply. 

Opening the door, Quatre was relieved to see Trowa standing without, his posture relaxed, and his expression mildly amused. "You're late." Quatre informed him, imposing a hard edge to his tone. 

"It couldn't be helped," Trowa offered by way of explanation as he entered. "He was shadowing me all afternoon, and even joined the poker game. But I'm glad I finally lost him; I wanted to check on our suits before I came to see you" 

"You're sure he didn't follow you here?" 

"I'm sure," Trowa affirmed with confidence, and then added in a dry tone, "Well, if he did, maybe he'll just think we're having a late night tryst." 

_Oh, don't I wish..._ Quatre smiled as his stressed mind, easily distracted, eagerly traveled the torrid avenues of his recent late night fantasies, before Trowa's words fully registered. Hauling his thoughts back to the present, he managed an undignified squawk. "What?" 

"Nothing. Never mind," was all Trowa said, his expression resuming its usual, unreadable calm. The brunet moved to sit on the end of the spare bed, as he had the previous night. 

_Was that a joke?_ Puzzling over Trowa's unexpected display of humour, Quatre reengaged the safety on his pistol and holstered it while he spoke, "Did you learn anything?" 

"He's a sore loser, and he's definitely not friendly." Trowa shrugged. "He was pressing me all evening, trying to get some kind of reaction, I suppose." 

"He hates you." Quatre warned, concerned Trowa might have exacerbated the situation by playing with the man's ego. 

"I'm not surprised," was Trowa's bland response. 

"Why? What did you do?" 

"When I left L3, I destroyed a fleet comprised of men from the Barton Foundation. He probably knew a lot of the people I killed." 

Trowa's matter-of-fact tone would have given Quatre pause to question the wisdom of counting Trowa a friend, except that the blond had a far better sense of the other pilot than that. The emotion underlying Trowa's words wasn't callous and uncaring; it was weary and resigned. "He wants revenge," Quatre affirmed. 

"And Heavyarms, I suspect. The Foundation invested considerable time and resources into building it. They probably want it back." 

"So, he'll be wanting an opportunity to get rid of you and steal the Gundam." 

"He needs me to access the suit first - though he might not realise it yet. And he won't want to leave any witnesses." 

Quatre experienced a chill at the implications of Trowa's words. But it was true. The entire ship would be in danger if Carvey did get his hands on the Gundam. He frowned, speaking his thoughts aloud, "Why here? Why now?" 

"Because he believes I'm isolated and trapped." 

"Nowhere to run and no back up - at least none that he knows about." 

"I'm glad you're here, to back me..." Trowa broke off at the sound of a solitary pair of footsteps in the hall outside. He fell silent, listening. 

Quatre grew cold as they approached and stopped outside the door of the cabin. He groped about with his space-heart and turned even colder. Drawing his pistol, he stood. After exchanging a glance with Trowa he approached the door silently, while the other pilot - his pistol mysteriously in hand as well - moved off to the side of the chamber so that his presence would be hidden from the doorway. 

The cool metal of the pistol's grip was a comforting, solid weight, yet Quatre found his heart racing. For what seemed like hours he stood motionless, the gun trained on the door; the only sound was the rush of blood through his body. Carvey was there, on the other side, waiting. He felt Trowa behind him, tense and expectant, but not afraid. Quatre swallowed, that simple, reflexive motion suddenly jarring - loud and abrupt. 

The shuffle of rubber soles on the carpet outside preceded the presence of a shadow at the base of Quatre's door, the thin sliver of light blotted out as the man outside moved closer. 

Through force of will Quatre kept his stance relaxed and his hands from trembling as he continued to hold the pistol at the ready. He slid his thumb up to disengage the safety with a soft click. 

A muffled rustle and the slight thump of the door being pushed against its frame indicated Carvey was leaning against the door. _Listening,_ Quatre realised, bending his entire focus to the trigger under his finger, his line of fire, and the door handle. 

Quatre counted his heartbeat, coaxing it to slow and even out in time with his breathing. He'd gotten to 218 when the weight against the door eased back, the shadow receded, and footsteps moved off, back down the corridor from whence they had come. 

"He's gone," he whispered, hearing Trowa moving behind him. Quatre holstered his firearm and turned back to Trowa. "He's still suspicious of me." 

"Or my association with you. Though you offered him an adequate explanation, I thought." Trowa shrugged, replacing his own gun in a holster he had concealed by his loose shirt at the small of his back. 

"Maybe we were too quiet then," Quatre joked before he realised what he'd said. 

But to his surprise and delight, Trowa only laughed. "I just wore you out already," he teased, green eyes sparkling in good humour, before he seated himself back on the spare bed. 

Quatre sputtered and nearly choked on his own laughter at the unexpected innuendo from Trowa. "Are you implying I have no stamina?" he demanded between breaths, trying - and failing - to sound indignant. He fixed his hands on his hips, mock glaring at Trowa, and biting his lips to keep from laughing, though he still shook from the force of containing his amusement. 

His companion laughed harder at Quatre's feigned irritation. "That wasn't what I was implying at all," he replied with a suggestive smirk and a raised eyebrow. 

Quatre opened his mouth to retort, but then closed it again quickly feeling his face heat at the images conjured by Trowa's words. _Well, at this rate, I guess we'll never know._ Giving Trowa a suspicious look he steered the conversation away from the sexual implications, "Are you sure you're Trowa? I didn't know he knew how to laugh." 

Blinking, Trowa sobered rapidly. "No, I'm not..." 

Reflecting on his words, Quatre groaned, "I'm sorry. That was... a really stupid thing for me to say. I didn't mean it like that." He moved to sit on his bed, facing Trowa, hoping that he hadn't damaged the nascent friendship with the other boy. "But to me you are Trowa." 

"Do you mean that?" was Trowa's unexpected response as he turned to meet Quatre's eyes, his body language questioning and hesitant, yet hopeful. 

"I do mean it. And I'm glad you do laugh." 

Trowa gave his familiar small smile and nodded, accepting the answer. His mood changed abruptly though, as he moved back to the dilemma they faced. "I think it'd be a good idea for us to stay together at night - until we've come up with a way to deal with Carvey." 

"I'd feel better if you stayed tonight at least. He could still be out there somewhere waiting for you to return to your cabin." 

Trowa nodded again, "You're sure you don't mind?" 

"Not at all. There's an extra bed anyway." 

"Okay." Trowa stood, and began tugging his shirt out of the waistband of his jeans. 

Quatre blinked, tearing his eyes away from the flashes of bare skin Trowa's movements revealed. "Um, well, I'll go change in the bathroom and stuff while you get settled." Quatre reached to grab his pyjamas from under his pillow and hurried to the bathroom, trying to banish the tantilising images afflicting his mind's eye. _Why couldn't he just be ugly or dull or stupid or insensitive or really anything but the way he is?_ Quatre complained to himself, gritting his teeth as he changed and got ready for bed. _And I have to try to sleep with him so close._

Slowly Quatre exited the bathroom, giving Trowa enough warning that he wouldn't feel his privacy was invaded. "The bathroom's all yours," he said as he stepped around the corner. Trowa was in bed, the sheets covering him up to his waist but his chest and torso were bare as he sat up against his pillows browsing through one of the novels Quatre had on his nightstand. His gun lay on that same surface, gleaming dully in the low light, a potent reminder of the danger they were in. Quatre focused on that sense of danger to keep his eyes from lingering on Trowa. 

"Thank you." Trowa set the book aside and moved to toss his covers off and stand. Quatre hurriedly averted his eyes and turned away, pulling the covers back on his own bed, but he wasn't fast enough to miss a glimpse of the other boy's graceful and sleekly muscled body, clad only in a pair of tight black boxer-briefs. 

_Don't be an idiot,_ he scolded himself while he crawled under the covers and turned to lie on his side facing the wall and the heavy drapes hanging there. _There are other things you should be thinking about that don't involve your only ally being naked._ Even knowing the attraction was mutual, and Quatre hoped for more between he and Trowa, he was unwilling to act on his attraction - especially now when any distraction could prove fatal. And there was the matter of the way Trowa shied away from any real intimacy, not to mention the way he seemed to grow uncomfortable about his own attraction to Quatre. _Although,_ Quatre reminded himself with a smile, _we did laugh together today. And we really are helping each other._

Fortunately sleeping wasn't as much of a problem as Quatre had been expecting. Now that he could relax from the anxiety of the day, he found consciousness drifting away quite rapidly; he succumbed to sleep before Trowa had returned from the bathroom. 

  
  


The soft pattering sounds of the shower roused Quatre the next morning. He stretched languorously under his sheets before rolling to his side and taking in the unmade bed next to his. Still resting on the night table was Trowa's gun, and the other pilot's clothes remained draped over the back of the small sofa. Surprised at how well he'd slept while sharing his room, Quatre slid out from under the covers, shivering when the cooler air of the cabin quickly permeated the loose satin of his pyjamas. He yawned as he staggered to collect his dressing gown, pulling it on clumsily while making his way to the window to jerk back the curtains and let the morning sun in. The day was brilliant and clear like the previous, contrasting strangely with the danger that remained. In the fresh light of the morning, it would be all too easy to dismiss the events of the previous day. 

The background hiss of the shower had ceased, and Quatre turned at the click of the door opening behind him. Trying to stifle any overt reaction to the sight that greeted him, Quatre nevertheless found his mouth dry as simple phrases like 'hello' and 'good morning' fled from his mind. Trowa stood with a white towel wrapped low about his hips, the brightness of it contrasting sharply with the lightly tanned complexion of the tall pilot. The colour of his skin was like a delectable mixture of caramel and cream, warm and rich, housing the sculpted, lithe contours of his acrobat's physique. 

"Quatre?" Trowa inquired while Quatre followed the graceful motion of Trowa's hand, finger-combing his damp hair into a messy variation of its usual style. 

"Um... Trowa," Quatre managed, blinking and forcing his eyes to meet Trowa's, and attempted a smile as his vocabulary returned to him. "Good morning." 

"May I borrow your bathrobe to go back to my quarters?" 

The blond blinked again, his eyes once more roaming over Trowa's exposed state. "Uh... yes. Of course," he fumbled. Receiving a quizzical look from Trowa, Quatre added, "Sorry, I'm, uh, not much of a morning person." 

"Okay," was the brief acknowledgment as Trowa turned to retrieve the robe from the bathroom. Once more modestly garbed, the brunet collected his firearm and clothes. "I'll see you at breakfast then?" 

Quatre nodded, and Trowa left. 

With a frustrated groan Quatre entered the bathroom; it was still steamy from Trowa's shower, the air thick with the familiar smell of his shampoo mingling with the less familiar warmth of Trowa's own scent. _I'm doomed,_ Quatre groused silently as he stripped off his clothes and turned on the water. He shook his head as if that action could somehow banish the increasingly distracting thoughts and feelings he was experiencing towards Trowa, and stepped into the small shower cubicle. It was much easier to reign in those impulses when facing only his imagined fantasies. It was quite another when he was presented with a damply glistening and mostly naked Trowa in the flesh. 

Mechanically, Quatre went through the routine of washing while he tried to talk himself out of his unsettling responses to Trowa and the mutual feelings of attraction that were beginning to threaten their still young alliance. Pushing that relationship beyond the bounds of friendship would likely do more harm than good, and Quatre remained uncertain whether Trowa even counted him as a friend, or merely a convenient ally. Quatre knew he wanted a friendship with Trowa more than a romantic relationship, and for now, things between them were still too awkward to risk any action that would damage that potential. Nor could either of them afford to be distracted when Carvey still posed a threat to their mission. 

Resolve firmly back in place - at least temporarily - Quatre dressed and headed to breakfast. But before he even got there, he sensed something amiss. A peculiar flutter of malignancy eclipsed a concerned wariness. The latter Quatre recognised immediately as Trowa, and the former - it wasn't much of a stretch to assume it was Carvey. He increased his pace as his heartbeat accelerated. What could Carvey possibly do at breakfast though? Although, Quatre reminded himself, Carvey probably wasn't that worried about witnesses. If his plans came off, everyone on the ship would be dead. 

Entering the mess hall, Quatre stopped short. Neither Trowa nor Carvey was there. He gave a rapid second glance around the room before hastily leaving and clambering up the steps to the deck on which Trowa's cabin was located. He broke into a run, drawing his pistol, at the sight of sunlight streaming into the corridor from the open door of Trowa's quarters. 

Chaos met his eyes as he rounded the corner, pistol at the ready. Trowa's room had been turned inside out. The other pilot's few belongings were strewn about the place, both beds torn apart, every drawer on the floor, and every cabinet door open. 

Swearing under his breath, Quatre entered the chamber cautiously, running on pure adrenaline; he put his fear temporarily aside as he took in the details around him, verifying no one was still here. A hard kick opened the bathroom. It too was in a state of utter disarray, and mercifully vacant. 

"The Gundams," Quatre spoke, gritting his teeth against the heat of anger flaring within him. It seemed as though Carvey had realised whatever it was he needed Trowa for in order to access Heavyarms. "Trowa." A quick grope with his empathy led Quatre to the same conclusion. The danger was below decks. He mentally kicked himself for not employing that method sooner - the longer he was delayed, the greater the danger to Trowa. 

As quickly as he was able, Quatre raced down multiple metal stairways that led deep into the ship's innards until he came to a familiar door that led into the main cargo hold. Fishing in his pocket for his silencer, he hurriedly affixed the attachment to the barrel of his pistol. Back to the door he listened for a moment. Hearing nothing, Quatre used his left hand to slowly turn the doorknob, while employing his weight to push the portal open, and brought his gun to bear with his right hand. 

Grateful for the soft rubber soles of his sneakers, Quatre crept silently into the dimly lit expanse of the ship's cavernous hold. Dark forms of assorted vehicles and wooden shipping crates littered the area, creating a labyrinthine expanse of hulking shapes obstructing Quatre's vision, yet providing plenty of cover. 

Deftly, he made his way from car to crate, heading in the general direction of the trucks holding the Gundams. Soon he could make out voices. He paused to listen. 

"Come on, Nanashi," Carvey spoke in a harsh, mocking tone. "Help me out and I'll let you live." 

Quatre could only imagine Trowa's non-expression as he heard his voice, icy in its lack of inflection. "I don't think so." 

A sound of movement was followed by the abrupt bass crack of a gunshot, and then - pain. 

_Trowa._

"Damn it," Quatre hissed, on the move again, sacrificing some of his silence for speed. 

Carvey's voice drew closer. "Fancy moves, kid. But my patience is wearing thin. Drop it, and I _might_ not kill you." 

No response from Trowa ensued as Quatre slowed to a halt behind a nearby pile of shipping crates. He'd caught a fleeting glimpse of Carvey, his back to Quatre's hiding place, facing Trowa, who was crouched on top of the bulk of Heavyarms. For a moment, Quatre closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, but he had little time to spare. 

He spun out from behind the stack of crates, falling easily into a fighting stance, pistol gripped firmly, trained on Carvey. Ahead of the man was Trowa, his own gun at the ready, facing off against Carvey and his own raised firearm. The other pilot looked pale; Quatre noted the dark stain spreading on the shoulder of his left arm, the tear in his sleeve. 

"Don't move," Quatre said, his tone cold, even, and commanding. "Drop your weapon, raise your hands, and turn. Slowly." 

Carvey laughed, a cold cruel sound. "Sounds like your little bitch is trying to play the hero, Nanashi." He didn't turn. Rather, Quatre saw the man's arms tense as he raised his gun a hairsbreadth, preparing to fire. 

Quatre didn't hesitate. He lowered the muzzle of his pistol and fired. The bullet tore through Carvey's knee with precision, felling the man, and his gun skidded just out of reach. "Sorry, but I did say, don't move," Quatre reminded him, refusing to look at the blood seeping from the man's injury. 

Carvey was still, his breath ragged, before he raised his head. "You little fuck," he snarled before lunging for his weapon. He reached it, bringing it up more quickly than Quatre had anticipated and fired recklessly. Trowa leaped. Quatre took aim, higher, and squeezed the trigger again. The muffled gunshot connected with Carvey's prone form with a sickening thud. 

After executing an impressive midair somersault, Trowa landed lightly near Quatre, who stepped closer to Carvey's now still form, gun still aimed at the man. The blond forced his attention away from the pain and fear emanating from Carvey, concentrating instead on verifying he was no longer a threat. The second bullet had impacted high, near the centre of the man's back - exactly where Quatre had aimed. Nevertheless, Quatre's stomach twisted at the knowledge it was a mortal injury. 

Holstering his firearm, Trowa dropped to a crouch beside Carvey; he pushed the man's gun away and rolled him onto his back, revealing a thick pool of blood. Carvey's glazed eyes fluttered open, his breath coming in a wheezing rattle. "He's dying," Trowa observed. 

"I know," Quatre whispered, unable to tear his gaze away from the man he'd killed. 

Coughing weakly, a spray of bloody saliva coating his lips, Carvey croaked. "You bastard." With a final broken exhalation, his life fled. 

Quatre closed his eyes in the wake of that moment - the horror of black fear and utter despair that accompanied death's claiming of a reluctant victim. That horror was inevitably followed by the awful, sucking void of a consciousness destroyed forever. 

Swaying on his feet, Quatre slowly fell to his knees, grappling with the expected wave of nausea that followed, and steadfastly blinking back the tears burning in his eyes. He stared at his hands, still clutching his weapon. Stiffly, he unwrapped his fingers from the pistol's grip, letting the gun fall to his lap. 

"Quatre?" came a soft query, prompting the blond to look up. Still crouching, Trowa shuffled toward him, a frown of worry creasing his brow. 

"I - I've never killed anyone," Quatre began before clearing his throat, "like that - face to face. So much blood." A pained grimace crossed Trowa's face before he reached to lay a sympathetic hand on Quatre's shoulder. Quatre turned his attention to Trowa's arm. "You're hurt." 

"Hmm, yeah. I was just a bit too slow getting out of the way before." Wincing, Trowa ripped the torn sleeve from his injured arm, and folded it into a makeshift bandage. "I'll be fine." 

"So, um, what happened?" Quatre asked as he stood, holstering his pistol and firmly pushing aside his discomfort. 

"When I got to my cabin, it'd been broken into and searched. After I dressed, I decided to check on the Gundams, thinking Carvey was counting on me to do something like that. I hoped to turn the tables on him." 

"You should've waited for me." 

Standing, Trowa scowled at the corpse. "I knew you'd be right behind me." 

Quatre digested that last statement for a moment. "Oh." 

But before he could speak further, rapid footsteps sounded in the hold and a voice called out. "What's going on down here?" It was the captain's voice. 

"Damn. What now?" Quatre whispered, exchanging an apprehensive glance with Trowa. 

"We explain what happened without mentioning the Gundams, and hope for the best." 

"And if that doesn't work?" 

"We'll have to make sure it does." Trowa's tone was hard, causing Quatre to grimace in distaste at the thought of what might transpire otherwise. 

Shortly thereafter, the Captain and his First Mate stepped into the pilots' line of sight. The two men were armed and wary as they approached. Trowa raised his hands to show his lack of violent intention, prompting Quatre to do the same. 

"What's happened here?" the captain demanded, confusion written on his face. 

"I found my quarters burgled this morning and came below to make sure my cargo remained secure," Trowa began calmly. "This man ambushed me," he nodded at Carvey's cooling body. "He fired at me, but fortunately Quatre arrived and asked him to disarm. He persisted in trying to kill me, so Quatre shot him, once in warning, and then once more when it became clear the man wasn't going to stand down." 

"Is that what happened?" he asked Quatre. 

"Yes, sir." 

Scratching the back of head thoughtfully for a moment, the Captain continued, "I'm inclined to believe you both. That man had rubbed me the wrong way from the moment he boarded the Destiny. And neither of you seem like bad kids." Quatre let out his breath in relief, unaware he'd even been holding it. "But," the Captain amended. "I don't like the idea of anyone carrying firearms on my ship." He held a hand out to Quatre. "If you'd surrender your weapon?" 

_So far so good._ Quatre complied, slowly reaching into his jacket to remove his pistol from its shoulder holster, before passing it, handle first, to the Captain. 

The man took the gun and sighed. "I probably owe you a debt of gratitude, young man. Piracy is still a significant problem for ships like ours. I wouldn't be surprised if this man had been operating in conjunction with one of the Caribbean pirate cartels. 

"I'd like to keep this quiet so other passengers aren't alarmed, but I'll need to talk with you both further, and fill out documents for the appropriate authorities to account for a death on my ship." 

"Of course," Quatre spoke while Trowa merely nodded. 

"But first," he addressed Quatre again. "Take your friend to the infirmary and see to his injury." [7] 

  
  


Following the captain's directions, the infirmary - or rather, the small room that passed for an infirmary - was easily found. Quatre keyed in the combination given him and the door unlocked with a muted click. Opening the door, he fumbled briefly along the wall for the light switch and indicated Trowa should enter. It was easier to keep his mind from the recent events with a new concern to occupy his thoughts. 

"How's the arm?" he asked the brunet who was still firmly gripping the injury with the tattered remnants of one sleeve. 

"I've had worse," he replied looking around the small chamber. 

"Um, here, why don't you sit on this?" Quatre spoke as he dragged a tall stool from under the counter to the centre of the room, placing it under the single light fixture. 

Trowa nodded and then, removing his impromptu bandage, winced and pulled his shirt off over his head. He tossed the ruined garment to the low cot along one wall and perched on the edge of the stool, twisting his neck to examine the bullet graze and prod it gingerly with his index finger. 

Quatre could see fresh blood welling up in the shallow wound, "Don't make it worse!" he admonished, carefully keeping his eyes from roaming over the revealed contours of Trowa's back and chest. 

Trowa met his eyes before replying, his lips curving into a small, wry smile. "Yes, Doctor." 

"Here," Quatre passed Trowa a pad of gauze he'd found in a container on the counter. "Use this while I find something to clean it with." 

Quatre rummaged quietly through the cupboards and drawers lining the room, finding and collecting the assorted materials he required to tend to Trowa's bullet wound. In the silence, unbidden, he found images of the dead man flashing past his mind's eye. He could feel Trowa's eyes on him, and he cursed his trembling hands. _Damn it. Get a grip on yourself. You weren't even the one who got shot._

"You always seem to be patching me up," came Trowa's low, modulated tone, pulling Quatre's attention back to the task at hand. 

"I'm sorry you're always getting hurt." Quatre found a small plastic tray upon which he placed his small collection of items. 

"Don't be. It's not your fault." Trowa spoke, his tone warming as Quatre turned to face him. "And, thank you. You have... gentle hands." 

"Oh, uh, you're welcome, and thank you," the blond stammered, feeling his face heat mildly at the unexpected compliment. "But I haven't done anything yet," Quatre amended as he set the tray on the counter top nearest Trowa. 

"I was just remembering," was the soft, almost shy response. The emotion now emanating from the other pilot was affectionate, vaguely sentimental, and self-conscious. 

Steadfastly refusing to consider that particular mixture of feeling from Trowa, Quatre bent to pull a second stool to the side and slightly behind the other boy. "Hm, well, this is going to sting when I clean it, so be ready for that." 

"Okay." And with that Trowa fell silent - patient, relaxed, and centered. Attending to those sensations, the blond seated himself and steadied his hands while he undid the cap of the antiseptic. His fingers brushed across Trowa's as he indicated that the other boy remove the gauze pad he'd been holding over his injury. Relinquishing the blood stained material, Trowa's hand dropped to his lap as he closed his eyes and let his head fall forward. 

Trowa's skin was warm and smooth under Quatre's fingers as the blond carefully examined the superficial graze across the other pilot's deltoid muscle. Quatre gingerly began daubing at the injury with a fresh bit of antiseptic-moistened gauze, cleaning away the blood that had begun to congeal along with fabric lint from Trowa's sleeve. Once the area was clean, Quatre reached for a fresh piece of gauze and held it to staunch the fresh trickle of blood. While he waited, he studied Trowa's bowed profile, the brunet's features were placid, all tension having slipped away, leaving his lips in the barest approximation of a smile while his long eyelashes rested delicately above high cheekbones. His complexion was dusted lightly with colour from recent exposure to natural sunlight, and Quatre smiled. At this proximity, he could even make out a smattering of barely visible freckles across the other boy's cheeks and nose. 

Leaning closer - almost involuntarily - Quatre inhaled deeply. Over the astringent odor of the antiseptic he could detect Trowa's native scent. Warm, fresh, and alive - so alive. Holding the gauze with his left hand, he allowed the fingers of his other hand to trail across the firm surface of Trowa's shoulder blade, abstractly wondering at the faded scar that extended across part of that region. 

_So warm,_ his mind murmured while his eyes and fingers hesitantly wandered over the exposed skin before him. He heard Trowa gasp softly, but it wasn't in pain, and the boy didn't flinch from his light touch. There was rather pleasure, mingling with a gently rousing desire. _So alive._

His consciousness was drawn inexorably into that whisper of desire; Quatre, his senses reeling, dimly noticed his breathing growing shallow, his heart accelerating, his body stirring. Those newly awakening sensations writhed through him, brushing against the threads of Trowa's gradually increasing arousal. It was such a vital and vibrant force, banishing the recent images of death. He bowed his head near, eyes closed, feeling the heat radiating from Trowa's body on his face as his fingers continued their light caress. _Can you feel it, Trowa?_

But he wasn't to receive an answer to his unspoken question that day. Abruptly, those relished, sympathetic sensations retreated, retracting to become obscured behind discomfort and apprehension. Quatre pulled his hand away as if burned, blinking his way back to the tangible world. Trowa had lifted his head and was looking at him, his eyes dazed and questioning, but also nervous. "Quatre...?" 

"I - I'm sorry." Quatre began, his lips forcing each syllable out painfully, "I was... I was just wondering where you got this scar on your back," he tried to offer a credible explanation for his lapse - a way out for both or either of them. _Idiot, what were you thinking?_

Trowa sighed in a wash of relief, but his voice was unsteady as he replied, "I don't know. I've had it for as long as I can remember. I probably got it when I was a baby." 

Quatre nodded, swallowing, and turned his attention back to finishing the dressing on Trowa's injury. 

Neither boy spoke for a time; the silence between them grew weighty. Finally Trowa asked, "Are you okay?" 

Failing to suppress an irrational surge of annoyance at the other boy, Quatre spoke in a clipped tone, "I'm fine." _What is he afraid of? Why does he keep pulling away?_

"You seem distracted - and upset." 

_Oh, so he does care. What the heck?_ "I'm fine," he repeated. "I guess I'm just still thinking about earlier." 

Trowa opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again promptly with a frown and fell silent again. They remained in awkward silence while Quatre finished bandaging Trowa's arm. Once it was finished Trowa stood, feeling at the dressing with his other hand. "Thank you. It feels better." 

"We need to talk to the captain. Identify the body and fill out the forms he mentioned." Quatre grimaced at the thought of seeing Carvey's corpse again. It was bad enough the first time, to have to look again... Quatre pinched his eyes shut as a wave of dizziness passed through him. Reaching for the counter beside him, he steadied himself. _Idiot,_ he scolded, _Pull it together before he thinks you're completely incompetent._

"Are you sure you're all right, Quatre? I can probably do this without you." No judgement resided in Trowa's tone; the other pilot felt genuinely concerned, but Quatre was determined to do what he needed to do. 

"No. I killed him. It's my responsibility. The captain needs both of us to sign statements. I'm fine." 

"Okay," Trowa relented, but then added as he collected his shirt and moved to open the door, "And, Quatre?" 

"Yes?" 

"Thank you. You probably saved my life." 

  
  


He could feel the tears coming, an imminent pressure accumulating in his chest, head, and throat, due to erupt at any moment now. Quatre needed to leave this place, this refrigerated room in the bowels of the ship, intended for the transport of delicate, temperature sensitive cargo, but which now had been pressed into service as a makeshift morgue. 

Though the sheet had been pulled to cover the dead man lying on the table at the side of the room, Quatre could still feel the man's ghoulish gaze on him, accusatory and damning. Trowa and the Captain were still speaking, the latter of whom was filling out yet more paper work. How could they be so calm with that corpse just lying there? Quatre shivered, and moved quickly to the door, "Excuse me, please." 

Trowa shot him an alarmed look while the Captain spoke pleasantly, "Thank you, young master. Have a restful evening." The man's tone was sympathetic, but in Quatre's frame of mind, it sounded condescending. 

Closing the door behind him, Quatre indulged a moment to sag against the wall and release a painful, shuddering sob. _Get a grip on yourself. You're not a child. You're a soldier. Death is part of war._ Repeating this silent mantra, Quatre pulled himself together enough to begin walking quickly down the hall to the stairs. He heard the door behind him open and close, footsteps following him, but he didn't slow or look back, rather he increased his pace as he ascended to the upper decks. Trowa's voice came from somewhere below him, echoing through the stairwell, "Quatre, wait." 

_I'm sorry, Trowa. I need to be alone._ But he didn't reply out loud. 

"Quatre?" 

_Leave me alone. I can't let you see me like this. I don't need your pity._ Surely Trowa would be disgusted by his weakness, by his cowardice. Quatre felt the first of his tears welling up in his eyes; he couldn't bear to lose the other pilot's respect. He stepped out onto the level of his cabin and headed in that direction blindly, his vision now a blur. 

"Quatre!" Trowa's voice was closer and Quatre heard his steps follow him into the hall increasing their tempo to a jog. The blond increased his pace as well, reaching to fumble in his pocket for his keycard. But just as he reached his cabin, a hand closed over his shoulder, pulling him up short. 

Clenching his fists and refusing to turn around, "What?" he demanded angrily, his voice harsh with the effort to keep it from breaking. _Please, just go away._

"Quatre," Trowa's tone was gentler now, but the hand gripping the blond's shoulder held him firmly. "You're upset. I don't think it's a good idea for you to be alone." 

"Why do you care?" he lashed out in defense, uncaring whether his words hurt the other. 

But Trowa didn't flinch or let go. A second hand moved to hold his other shoulder. "You're my friend. I care." the brunet said simply. "I'm not leaving you alone like this." 

"Why not?" Quatre mumbled miserably as he failed in his battle to contain his distress. He bowed his head while tears began to slide down his cheeks. _Friend?_

Trowa stepped closer to Quatre, the proximity of his body compelling yet terrifying. The hand on Quatre's right shoulder moved to rub the blond's upper arm in a comforting rhythm. Eventually Trowa replied softly, "Because I know what it's like. No one was there for me when I... after I killed someone the first time." 

Unable to think of a better response, Quatre managed in a small voice, "Really?" 

"Really." Trowa released him. "Now, we can keep standing here in the corridor, or you can let us into your room." 

"Okay," Quatre sniffled, unlocking his door and stepping in. He still couldn't bear to look at his friend. _He said we're friends,_ and Quatre found some comfort in that. Tossing his keycard carelessly to his desk, Quatre moved to lie down on his bed, facing the wall and burying his face against the pillow. He sensed Trowa hovering in some uncertainty behind him. "You must think I'm weak. I'm such a coward," he accused, giving voice to his fears. 

"Why would I think that?" Trowa's tone was genuinely bewildered as he moved into the room. 

"Look at me! Look at you..." Quatre trailed off, his anger directed inwardly. The other pilot was so controlled, so efficient and experienced. Compared to him, Quatre was like an infant. 

A hint of exasperation coloured Trowa's next words. "Quatre, believe me. It's a blessing to be able to cry, to feel like that." 

"I'm pathetic," he insisted, wiping his tears on the pillowcase. 

"No," Trowa corrected. "You're strong." 

Irritated, "How?" was the blond's demand. 

Trowa took a deep breath. "You're a good person - you're kind. That you _can_ cry - that you do care... It's harder to care than not." 

"What do you mean?" he asked, feeling a small blossom of hope intrude into the anguish and self-recrimination he was experiencing. 

"Compassion is a burden that not many people have the strength to bear," Trowa explained, seating himself on the edge of Quatre's bed. "From what I've seen, people handle things like this in many different ways. You could be like Dominic, and embrace the anger, hatred, and violence so that you come to enjoy it, thrive on it. I've seen that far too often." The brunet paused and when he resumed speaking his tone was bitter, "Or you could be like me and refuse to let yourself feel the pain - to let your soul die, bit by bit." 

Thinking on his friend's words and manner, a new wave of tears broke through the blond in response to the melancholy of his friend. Quatre whispered brokenly, "Your soul's not dead, Trowa." 

The other pilot, however, didn't reply to Quatre's words, continuing with his short speech, "Or you could be as you are - strong enough to act on your beliefs - motivated by compassion, and uncompromising in your personal integrity." 

"You see me that way?" 

"I do." 

"Oh." Quatre turned the words over his mind, evaluating the sentiment for its veracity. 

"And you're not a coward either. Only a fool doesn't feel fear. It's how you react to your fear that makes you brave. Real courage is doing what you need to do even when you're terrified." 

Quatre fell silent for a time, further contemplating Trowa's words as he stared at the thick folds of burgundy hanging against the wall he faced, and slowly seeing some of the wisdom in them. "I am scared," he confessed in a whisper, and finally, mercifully, released all attempts to control his grief and fear, his body shook with the force of his first ragged sobs. "All the time," he choked out, curling his body in on itself and clutching his pillow to his face. 

"It's okay to be scared," Trowa soothed, and Quatre felt the other pilot tentatively place a hand on his back, awkwardly stroking in a broken rhythm. 

"He's dead. I killed him," Quatre sobbed into the heavy material, "I mean... I - I don't regret it, but I keep seeing his face," his breath hitched painfully, and he let the pillow drop from his face to continue, "his eyes - they're so cold - I broke him, I destroyed his life. Wh-when they're in a mobile suit I can't see their faces - even though I still feel them die." 

There was a pregnant pause. "Oh God... you feel them die?" Trowa's voice was thick with his own emotion, "I didn't even think... Quatre..." he began, full of sorrow, but trailed off, his comfort offered wordlessly by the subtle increase in the pressure of his hand's movement against Quatre's back. 

"All of them..." Quatre broke into a fresh spasm of sobs at the admission, of finally putting that agony into words after having kept it carefully under lock and key since he'd started fighting. He brought his hands to his face to hide his grief, but could no longer control the tremors wracking him. 

But, he wasn't alone. Trowa's presence was beside him, warm, sympathetic, and quietly supportive. His companion didn't speak for a time, allowing the blond his release, until Quatre began to fear he couldn't stop. His head throbbed, his eyes burned, he was so tired, and yet the tears still flowed. Carvey's dead face leered at him from behind closed eyelids, bloodless and grey, flecks of crimson on his lips, eyes wide and unseeing. 

"Trowa...?" he began, asking for something - for some other, greater solace - from the other boy, but not quite knowing how to put his need into words. 

The mattress bent under him as Trowa shifted away from him, off the bed. "Look at me, Quatre." Oddly, Trowa's voice came from greater proximity than before. 

Somewhat reluctantly, Quatre rolled over onto his back, turning his head in his friend's direction, repeatedly wiping his tears away with trembling fingers, and feeling self-conscious about how he must look - his face tear-streaked and puffy. 

Vibrant green eyes met his and Trowa gave him a hesitant, encouraging smile from where he'd moved to sit on the floor, his chin resting atop his hands which were folded together at the edge of the bed. Quatre just looked at him in confusion, blinking through the moisture clouding his vision. 

Reading Quatre's expression, Trowa spoke in explanation, "Can you feel me, Quatre?" 

"Are you asking me to?" he sniffled, still perplexed. "Or if I'm able to?" 

"I thought it might help you if you did." 

"But... I don't want... I mean you don't..." Quatre protested, but Trowa cut him off. 

"I trust you." 

Quatre frowned as understanding slowly dawned. Trowa was offering himself as an anchor, a peaceful haven from the gruesome images and memories that were attacking his psyche. "Are you sure...?" 

"I said I trust you," Trowa repeated. 

Quatre bit his lip, "May I touch you?" 

"Yes." Trowa reached out and took Quatre's hand loosely in his own, still smiling his encouragement. 

Given what had been between them, Quatre found himself humbled by the generosity of Trowa's words and actions. "Thank you." 

"So, I guess, just do what you do, and I'll do what I do," Trowa proposed, settling more comfortably beside the bed and closing his eyes, his features gradually relaxing into tranquil impassivity. 

"I've never done anything like this before," Quatre whispered, mostly to himself, but was unsurprised at the answering murmur. 

"Neither have I." 

Closing his eyes, even as the dead man's visage mocked him, Quatre let slip his mental and emotional fortifications first. Slowly he shifted his focus from the physical stimuli around him to his other, intangible sense. One by one, sensations left him; he no longer heard the thrum of the ship's engines or felt the mattress beneath him. The gentle sway of the ship on the water faded, as did the smells of wood polish, paint, and seawater. The only physical contact he allowed to remain was that of Trowa's hand in his own. The warmth and security of that touch he concentrated on, tightening his fingers around his friend's and receiving an answering squeeze in reply. 

Gently, but with determination he turned his attention away from the turmoil of his own pathos and the hideous imagery of his own mind, which threatened to overtake him in this place of heightened emotional receptivity and vulnerability. 

Instead, he found another ocean, the vast expanses of his friend's feelings manifesting in a newly familiar metaphor as he eased his focus to Trowa. The surface was calm, stirred by gentle swellings of emotion, but never broken, erratic, or violent. Quatre permitted his imagined psyche to rest against that surface, to be buoyed and cradled by its gentle movements. He drifted there for a while, curious to delve deeper, yet hesitant and unwilling to cause Trowa any feelings of violation. 

_He trusts me._ Quatre reminded himself in awe. _He offered this freely._

He relaxed then, allowing himself to slowly sink beneath the placid surface. Enveloped and caressed by cool viscosity, Quatre imagined he breathed deeply, freely, without any fear of drowning, his body becoming suffused by the substance in which he was submerged. Gazing upwards, the surface glimmered in a balanced and ever-changing, lazy pattern of light and shadow. He remained passive and allowed the native currents of Trowa's emotion to guide his languid journey as he sank deeper. 

Strangely, he felt as if he were dwindling, diminishing somehow and yet more whole and well defined than ever before. Drifting in a languorous, random descent Quatre became gradually aware of a light emanating from below him, filtering up around him in dusky golden beams. Heat accompanied the illumination; his back was imperceptibly warming as he fell. 

He noticed the light was moving and changing the closer he got to its source. Multihued streams began to twine about him, thickening and intensifying into translucent ribbons of pastel radiance. They flickered and danced as his curiosity finally got the better of him. Quatre's imagined body twisted, rolling over, while eddies of light and darkness, coolness and warmth, wrapped about him in an ethereal caress. 

Tears sprang to his imagined eyes and his breath caught at the splendour spreading below him, stretching as far as he could perceive - spanning the width and depth of his view. A spangled field of multifaceted shapes and textures shifted and pulsated with an essential, intrinsic spirit. He was bathed in that energy, feeling it seep through his imagined skin, permeating his consciousness in a peaceful balm of quiet intensity. 

_What is this?_ He questioned in wonderment. He'd never before experienced part of another person like this. Truly, he'd never been offered the opportunity - nor had he ever thought to ask. But he knew somehow that the answer was far beyond his ken. He abandoned any struggle for comprehension and simply floated in the enigmatic magnificence that was Trowa. 

Quatre surrendered, content, permitting his own consciousness to fragment and dissipate. Fading into pleasurable oblivion, some small corner of his mind realised he was falling asleep. Another portion of his mind, his physical senses, allowed him to distantly feel Trowa's hand gently disentangling from his. He felt first his shoes being removed, then his belt. Now, a flutter of air and the weight of a blanket settled over him. 

Though his body was leaden and barely bound to his will, he made an effort to speak, his own voice a dreamlike and abstract mumble. "You're beautiful inside... I can _see_ it." 

Snared at the border of wakefulness and slumber, he couldn't tell whether his last sensations were real or conjured by his own mind. But he felt Trowa's breath near his cheek and heard his friend's mellow tone whisper, "Don't let your soul die, Quatre." The warmth of that exhalation drew nearer, a soft contact brushed across his temple, and he slept. 

  
------------  


tbc.

  
------------  


Notes: 

[7] Typically, a freighter has no medical staff (unless they can carry more than 12 passengers, which is uncommon) You must be in good health to travel aboard such vessels - as well as being neither too young, nor too old. 


	4. Destiny Chapter 4

Destiny Chapter 4   


] Earth - The Atlantic & Pacific Oceans on the S.S. Destiny - Spring AC 195 [ 

  


Quatre woke abruptly. His cabin was in darkness indicating it was the deep of the night. He was still dressed, lying on top of his bedspread covered only by a blanket. Listening to the deep hum of the ship, he lay for a while recalling recent events and reorienting himself. Images from the previous day rushed through his mind, yet despite their violence, he felt peaceful. _Trowa_, he remembered. _He helped me, and it was wonderful._ Quatre struggled to sit up, tossing the blanket off his legs. _He said we were friends._ He reached for the light switch near his bed and flicked it on. _I don't feel scared anymore._

As the small lamp flared to life, Quatre's attention was drawn to the other bed. There, Trowa lay on his stomach, breathing softly in his sleep and looking peculiarly vulnerable. _He stayed with me?_ Quatre stood quietly, pulling back his covers and collecting his pyjamas from under his pillow, taking care not to wake Trowa. 

He stepped away from the bed and behind one of the partially closed drapes and tried to change as unobtrusively as he could. Pleasantly bemused and wondering at the continuing presence of his friend, and at what Trowa had shared with him that night, he recalled his last fading impressions. _Did he,_ his mind stammered, _did he kiss me?_ A thrill of excitement accompanied that question, but Quatre was uncertain whether it had been a true occurrence. 

Quatre frowned, trying to make sense of the hazy dream disguised as a memory - or was it a memory disguised as a dream? _He said something about not letting my soul die, and then I felt - I felt him kiss me?_ But it was such a vague recollection, and further, Quatre reminded himself, it wasn't that dissimilar from the daydreams and fantasies he'd been pursuing lately. _I probably just imagined it._

Shaking his head in confusion, Quatre crept back into bed, pulling the covers back over himself slowly. He lay on his side contemplating his friend for a time. Trowa's face was turned toward him, and not that far away given the short span between the twin beds; he needed only straighten his arm and he could touch the other boy. _It was - no, _he_ was - so beautiful. Was that his soul?_ It was tempting, so tempting, to reach out and brush his fingers across those peaceful features, to gently rouse those eyes to open, and those lips to smile - but something stayed his hand. 

_I know he's attracted to me. He's interested that way - but uncertain and scared of something._ Quatre frowned thoughtfully. _At least I now know he likes me - and he trusts me._ But then Quatre was confounded as earlier that day in the infirmary came back to his mind. _I touched him, and he pulled away. Even though he liked being touched._

After stifling a yawn, Quatre ceased his pondering and reached to turn the light back off. _Maybe things will make more sense in the morning,_ he decided and drifted back to sleep. 

  
  


His bed was deliciously warm and comfortable - nearly perfectly so - thus it was with great difficulty that Quatre clawed his way to consciousness in response to a shaking of his shoulder and a voice speaking his name. It was a lovely voice, moderate and gentle, matching the touch on his shoulder. "Quatre?" 

"Mmph?" he managed, opening his eyes to meet a gaze the colour of a summer forest. 

"You don't have to wake up, but I brought you breakfast. I didn't think you'd want to miss it, but I didn't want to wake you any sooner." Trowa explained with an apologetic half-smile. 

Quatre yawned and struggled to sit, shedding the cocoon of sheets and blankets as he did so. _He's still here,_ his mind sighed happily, and Quatre was further pleased that he still felt content and calm - although, Trowa was somewhat anxious. He rubbed his eyes asking, "You brought me breakfast?" 

"It's on the desk," said Trowa, moving away from Quatre's bedside to collect the blond's dressing gown from the arm of the sofa. 

Blinking at his friend in mild surprise, Quatre swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, taking the garment Trowa held out to him and shrugging it on over his pyjamas. He fixed Trowa with a curious look, "You're being awfully... solicitous this morning." 

In response, Trowa's expression grew self-conscious. "I was concerned..." he offered, trailing off in mild embarrassment. Turning away, he went to pull the drapes open. 

"Thank you. I appreciate it," Quatre tried to reassure while wincing inwardly that he'd caused the other boy any discomfort - especially given what they'd shared. _I hope he doesn't regret what he... what we did._

Trowa moved to seat himself on the sofa while Quatre approached the desk and the tray resting upon it. Somehow Trowa had managed to fit a little bit of everything onto the platter, and it smelled delicious to Quatre's sleep fogged brain. He poured some tea before seating himself, turning his chair so he could face Trowa as he ate. 

"How are you feeling this morning?" Trowa eventually inquired. 

Quatre thought on it a moment, noting how unusually refreshed and simply good he felt. "Wonderful, actually," he admitted with a grin. Peering at his friend over the top of his teacup he was intrigued by the difference in Trowa this morning. His discomfort had metamorphosed from a distance keeping reluctance to the intimate anxiety of personal disclosure. To Quatre's view, he was more real, more attainable - more open. _I wonder what it was like for him, if he felt anything?_ Quatre mused, reaching for an apple Danish. 

"I'm glad to hear that." 

Careful not to appear too curious, Quatre stole several surreptitious glances at Trowa as he ate. Trowa's usual, balanced posture was marked by a subtle stiffness of his shoulders. Quatre doubted he would have noticed that small difference if it weren't for the slight apprehension he felt from the other boy. "How does your arm feel?" he inquired. 

"Stiff, and it aches a little, but otherwise, fine." 

Quatre frowned as Trowa turned away to gaze out the window. He wanted to somehow build upon the intimacy of the previous day, and yet, he feared disrupting the delicate mood of the morning. _What can we talk about?_ he wondered, and then nearly groaned at his own insensitivity. _Oh God, I can be so self-absorbed._ "Thank you again for what you did for me last night." 

"You're welcome." 

"So... um, how do you do that?" 

"Do what?" 

"Be so calm and balanced. I guess that sounds strange, but you feel so different to me - compared to most other people." 

Trowa shrugged. "I guess it's something I learned when I was young. If I was scared or sad or angry, and no one was there to help me or protect me," he began. "I just learned to sort of... " Trowa broke off as if searching for the right word. "Detach myself from those kinds of strong feelings." 

"How?" 

"I don't know; it's just something I do. I keep my body relaxed, and control my breathing - that helps moderate the physical response, and I..." He paused again with a frown. "I just let the fear - or whatever - move through me instead of getting stuck inside." Trowa's tone indicated the other pilot was skeptical of his explanation. 

"That makes sense to me," Quatre replied thinking of his own experiences with the emotions of others. "It sounds a little like how I manage my ability. Sometimes, if there are a lot of strong feelings present, I can't hold them all or I get overwhelmed. It's like," he fumbled for a simile that Trowa would relate to. "It's like trying to listen to a bunch of different pieces of music all at once - I just can't process it." 

"That does sound overwhelming." Trowa affirmed. "Dealing with your own emotions is enough of a challenge sometimes." He leaned forward in his seat, expressing his interest and encouraging Quatre to continue. 

"It was especially difficult when I was a younger and it - the empathy - was just starting to manifest," Quatre began, and then continued with a wry twist of his lips. "Before I knew what was going on, I thought I was going insane." 

"How old were you then?" asked Trowa, curious. 

"About ten," he answered, remembering how frightened he'd been at the time, how impatient his father had been with him. "My father sent me to a bunch of doctors who all tried to figure out what was wrong with me. They didn't have a clue, but, of course, they wouldn't admit to that." He shook his head. The medications had been awful. Even when the empathy was nascent, having it dulled, heightened, or distorted had been worse than no treatment. "I was put on all kinds of drugs - some experimental - and subjected to practically every neurological test or scan out there. I hated it. 

"But, finally, one doctor remembered reading something in a psychiatric journal. 'Unusual mental aptitudes' he called them." Smiling at that memory, of a doctor who hadn't been cowed his father's impatience and frustration, who had cared about the confused child he'd been, he explained, "We managed to find a specialist, and then I started to learn about the ability and how to control it. It was such a relief to know I wasn't sick. 

"Although, it was still hard before I did learn to cope with other people's emotions. I'd get confused and not be able to tell the difference between what I was feeling, and what others were feeling. My father's disapproval and frequent anger toward me were the hardest to cope with." 

A lump had formed in Quatre's throat; he swallowed hard, trying to collect himself. He glanced at Trowa and saw sympathy in his eyes. Clinging to that comfort, he continued, "I couldn't escape from _his_ emotions that easily, and he thought I was weak for crying - but I couldn't help it. All his feelings towards me I'd sort of absorb and then project them back onto myself until it was like my own anger and disapproval of myself. 

"I still don't really know why I disappointed him so much," he whispered, dropping his eyes to stare at his hands in his lap. "That's why I tried to run away when I was thirteen." Quatre fell silent, the ghosts of those painful exchanges with his father growing ever more tangible. 

Gently, Trowa inquired, "Was that when you met the Maguanacs?" 

"Yeah. I thought escaping to Earth, that somehow I'd have more freedom, or something. I don't really know anymore. I was a different person then." 

"You said that day changed your life." 

"It did. I grew up a lot." Quatre didn't want to go into the details. In retrospect, his attitude then had been that of an arrogant, self-pitying brat. "I think that day was the first day I really understood what it means to respect myself - and to be respected by others. I resolved to live a life I could be proud of, and to come back to Earth when I was ready to and not because I wanted to run away." 

"For what it's worth, I think you're living a life you can be proud of," was Trowa's soft-spoken response. 

When Quatre looked to his friend, he was greeted by a genuine, candid smile. "Thank you," he stammered feeling humbled by Trowa's simple sentiment of support and respect. "That means a lot to me." 

"But," Trowa said, standing. "What's most important is what _you_ think and how you feel about it." 

"Yeah, I know," Quatre rolled his eyes, grinning at his friend sheepishly. "Are you leaving?" 

Trowa nodded. "I'd like to clean up my cabin and take care of some other things. You'll be okay?" 

"I'll be fine. Thanks again, Trowa. For everything." 

"Anytime. I mean that." 

"You too." 

"Okay." Trowa moved to the door, but turned back to speak, "Do you want to join the game tonight after dinner?" 

"I'd love to. I'll see you then if not sooner." 

  
  


Early that afternoon the Destiny began its passage through the Panama Canal. [8] The crossing would take a full eight hours, and, as Quatre found out, the series of locks and lakes would raise the massive ship about fifty feet above sea level throughout the fifty-mile journey, before lowering the ship back to sea level and releasing it into the Pacific. The crew brought several deck chairs to the prow of the ship for their guests to enjoy the crossing, and Quatre met Trowa there, along with the other passengers. As they approached the first lock into the canal, Quatre stood at the prow, wondering how the Destiny could possible fit her tremendous bulk through the narrow channel. 

"We're not going to fit," he remarked to his friend who'd joined him at the railing. 

"It doesn't look like it does it? But the ship's a Panamax [9]. She'll fit." 

He and Trowa enjoyed a companionable silence as they each stood, content to admire the vista of the verdant hills of Panama, her dense jungles shrouded in silvery mists beneath the low, patchy cloud cover of the afternoon. Occasionally, upon spotting something of interest, one or the other of them would speak softly and point, sharing the sightings of other ships, the architecture of the canal, or a flock of exotic birds with the other. 

The sounds of human activity increased as the ship slowed to a near crawl, easing into the first lock, guided by a pair of tugs until linemen could board and affix guidelines to the Destiny. Once in the lock, the gates closed, and slowly, the water level rose. Alongside, on rails, were the huge steel mules that would assist in pulling the freighter through the lock. Observing the antique brickwork of the canal's structure, and the chunky metal mules, Quatre felt as if he'd somehow been transported back in time. It was hard to imagine how, centuries ago, the engineering ability had existed to construct such a thing - and that it was still in service now. 

Throughout the passage - much to everyone's delight - assorted native birds and butterflies, colourful and friendly, visited the ship. A crewman joined them to identify each creature, having experienced the trip many times before. As the wild landscape slipped past, afternoon turned to evening, and all too soon it was time for dinner. Quatre sighed in reluctance, wanting to stay and observe the tail of their journey; he could see the lights of the next lock on the horizon, glimmering in the twilight. Breathing deeply of the humid night air, he leaned into Trowa, their upper arms coming into contact. "I suppose we should go in." 

Trowa's answering sigh echoed his, but the brunet didn't move immediately. "I suppose we should." 

  
  


"Those guys will be pleased to have us off the ship!" Quatre laughed as he and Trowa climbed the stairs to Quatre's cabin that evening after the poker game. "Or at least _you_. Have you been cleaning them out like that every night?" 

"No, of course not. But, it's important to lull them into complacency by choosing to lose occasionally," Trowa spoke in his usual serious tone, but a smug grin tugged at the corners of his lips. 

"Well, so long as it's your choice..." Quatre grinned at his friend. It was a shame they had only two more nights on the ship. Quatre was beginning to regret not having joined more of the poker games during the voyage since they seemed to end leaving Trowa in a relaxed and amused mood at odds with his usual reserve. 

They came to Quatre's cabin door and paused without, facing each other in a moment that Quatre could only describe as expectant awkwardness. Quatre fished his keycard from his back pocket, fidgeting with the thin plastic while Trowa, head bowed, didn't meet his eyes for a time. When the other pilot did glance up at him from beneath his bangs, his mouth was pressed into a nervous line and his eyes had softened. 

_Shy?_ Quatre realised. _He's shy._ "Um," he began, trying to evaluate possible things he could say or do to alleviate the strange tension. _Should I be making some sort of move?_ It seemed like one of those moments that, had his life been some weird romance film, he'd lean forward and simply kiss the other boy, and then they'd live happily ever after. He smiled at Trowa, nearly afraid to breathe, fearing that whatever he did, he'd destroy this fragile feeling between them. _Then don't do anything,_ he advised himself. _Say something._

He opened his mouth to speak just as Trowa did, "I was wondering if you...?" Quatre began. 

"Did you want me...?" Trowa started, breaking off just as Quatre did. 

"Um, sorry," the blond apologised, feeling his face heat. "You first." 

Trowa chuckled, and that sound alleviated some of the tension. "I was going to ask if you wanted me to stay again? In case you're worried about not sleeping well." 

"I- I'd like that," Quatre breathed a soft sigh of relief. "I was just about to ask you the same thing." 

"Okay then. I'll just get some things from my cabin and be back here in a bit." 

"All right," Quatre entered his room as Trowa headed off down the corridor. 

With a groan, Quatre walked to his bed and collapsed in frustration. _What should I do? Does he even want me to do something?_ Quatre closed his eyes, collecting his thoughts. _Okay, he likes me; I like him. We're friends._ Of that much Quatre was sure. And just then, by the door, Trowa had felt receptive to more, to maybe moving things ahead, but yet uncertain. _Well, that's not a surprise, I'm uncertain too._ He tried to imagine how he could broach the subject with Trowa. Would it be better to talk about it, or to just take action and see what happened? _Or,_ Quatre's rational mind intruded, _would it be better to just go with the flow and keep getting to know him? Why risk harming what's going well so far?_ And on that note, Quatre sat up, deciding that he could try to be patient - and there were still two more nights of opportunity if things changed. 

A light knock sounded shortly thereafter, and Quatre sprang to open the door. Trowa slipped past him, a change of clothes over one arm, under which was a toiletry bag. In his free hand he had balanced a small tub of something topped by a pair of bowls and spoons. 

"I stopped by the galley to see if there was anything good left, and I found this." With unnatural grace and dexterity, Trowa twisted his wrist around to slide the item and bowls from his palm to the top of the desk before he draped his other things over the back of one of the chairs in the seating area. 

"What is it?" Quatre approached, eyeing the container in curiosity. 

"_Dulce de leche_ ice cream," Trowa answered before explaining further. "I remember practically making myself sick on this stuff when I was young. One summer, the band was in Spain. One of my friends brought back several huge tubs of this to camp. We had to eat it all before it melted." 

"That sounds like it must have been fun." 

"Yeah, only in a mercenary camp are adults going to encourage a kid to eat as much ice cream as he wants, and then try to get him to eat some more." Trowa opened the ice cream and began dishing it into two bowls. "I wonder if it's as nice as I remember it being?" 

"One of my sisters, Theo, she swears by the healing properties of ice cream. Whenever I was sad as a child she'd sneak me a big bowl of chocolate ice cream to cheer me up." 

"You have sisters?" Trowa passed one bowl to Quatre and the two sat down, Quatre sprawled on the sofa, with Trowa sitting in one of the chairs, sideways, his long legs draped over one arm. 

"Oh yes. That would be an understatement." Taking a spoonful of the caramel swirled ice cream, Quatre paused to slowly savour the rich, smooth concoction. "Oh this _is_ good! I have twenty-nine older sisters." 

Trowa's eyebrows rose. "Twenty-nine? How did your mother manage that?" 

Quatre shrugged, prodding at his ice cream with his spoon. "None of us has a mother like that. We're all test tube children from anonymously donated eggs and my father's sperm. I'm not sure if any of us even has the same biological mother." 

"Oh." The brunet frowned slightly, swallowing a spoonful of ice cream. 

"Pretty weird, huh?" Quatre laughed. It was weird after all, and too late for him to harbour any further bitterness about his origins. In some ways, it was almost a relief to be free from his familial obligations and those ties of his past. At least, if he tried to focus on that feeling, he could deal with the regret, the persistent feeling that he had failed in some way. 

In the wake of Quatre's lapse into a pensive mood, Trowa spoke again, "Weird is relative." His eyes sparkled at the pun, and Quatre groaned obligingly. They ate in comfortable silence for a time before he continued. "I had a sister, I'm sure of it." 

"What happened to her?" 

"I think she and my parents were civilian casualties of an Alliance air raid. But I'm not sure. I was so young at the time. I barely remember them." 

Quatre's heart clenched in sympathy. He'd guessed already that Trowa had lost his family - but to hear the boy put it into words, and to feel the echo of the dull pain of loss - Quatre spoke softly, "I'm sorry." 

Trowa gave him an odd look. 

"What?" queried Quatre, sensing a sort of amused, mild annoyance from the other boy. 

"Do you realise that you apologise for things that you have nothing to do with?" 

"I'm..." 

Trowa interrupted, "_Don't_ say you're sorry." 

"But," Quatre protested. "I feel bad about what happened to you." 

Trowa's expression grew more odd. "Thanks, I guess." He shrugged. "But there's no need to. We have to deal with things the way they are, not as we wish they were." 

"That's true," Quatre acknowledged. "But I can still regret that you lost your family." 

"I don't like regret," Trowa said with a short shake of his head for emphasis. "It's hard to move forward if you dwell in the past." 

A kernel of truth was in Trowa's statement - Quatre had been dealing with his own regrets enough to appreciate the sentiment. Yet it didn't quite sit right with him. "I think it's part of having a conscience. If people didn't feel things like regret then they'd learn less from their mistakes. Everyone would end up being a psychopath or something." He punctuated the last with a gesture of his spoon. 

"I didn't say it's pointless to have a conscience," Trowa conceded in part. "But at the same time, life is full of events we can't control. Guilt and regret over things you can't control can undermine discipline and lead to self doubt." 

"Ah," Quatre jumped on his friend's last statement. "But how do you tell the difference between things you control and things you don't? That's a whole other problem." 

"Well," the brunet began. "I have control over myself. That's the only control I count on. Everything else has to be evaluated on a case by case basis." 

"But for me, when I lead the Maguanacs," Quatre grimaced. "Or hypothetically become the CEO of Winner Enterprises at some point in the future, where does - or would - my control end? That sort of power comes with a lot of responsibility." 

Trowa inclined his head in mild accord. "That's why you're a leader, and I'm just a soldier." 

Sighing his frustration at the other boy's sentiment of self-deprecation, Quatre injected his statement with some vehemence. "You're not _just_ anything, Trowa. Don't sell yourself short." 

"Hm," was Trowa's non-response. 

Quatre decided to press the issue further. "What would do if you weren't fighting, or if there were no wars? Or, better yet, what do you see yourself doing after _this_ war?" 

"First, I'd probably still be a mechanic. Second, I don't believe there ever will be no wars. Third, I have no plans for after the war. I don't plan for a future I probably won't have." 

"That's depressing." 

"It's realistic." 

Exasperated, Quatre resisted the urge to toss a throw pillow at Trowa. "Okay, then, use your imagination. Pretend we survive this war and the world ends up at peace. What would you do then?" 

"Probably be tried before the World Court for crimes of terrorism." 

"That's so much less depressing than being dead," Quatre remarked sarcastically. "You could end up as a hero." 

"Now _that_ would be truly depressing." Trowa's attention was fixed on scraping the last of his dessert from his bowl. 

"Fine, fine, you're not on trial, you're not a hero, the world is at peace. What do you do?" 

"I don't know. There's no point speculating." 

With a frustrated groan, Quatre set his bowl on the low table before the sofa. "But you need a dream, Trowa. _Something_ to look forward to." 

"I told you, soldiers can't afford dreams." 

"Hm. Look at it this way then. In the scenario wherein you're not dead, imprisoned, or annoyingly famous - what strategy would you next employ for living your life?" 

"Well, when you put it that way..." 

"Oh, just try. Humour me." 

Trowa tapped his spoon against his lips thoughtfully. "I like being at the circus. I could keep doing that." 

"What else?" 

"That's not enough?" Trowa raised an eyebrow. 

"No, you can't be an acrobat forever. You'll get too old and creaky." 

"I could be a geriatric clown," he deadpanned. 

With a bright laugh, Quatre shook his head firmly and waggled an index finger at his friend. "Oh no, you're not weaseling out of my question that easily!" Quatre rolled to his stomach on the sofa, fixing Trowa with his most persuasive stare. "What else?" he prompted. "You could go to university, become a concert musician, travel, learn how to make ice cream..." 

"Hmm." Trowa met his eyes. "University would be fun. I've always wanted to do something like that someday." 

"See! You do have a dream," Quatre flashed his friend an encouraging smile. 

"I guess I do," said Trowa with an answering curve of his lips. 

"You _are_ a dreamer, Trowa. You just haven't realised it." 

Arched eyebrows drew together in a ghost of a frown, and Trowa paused before responding, "How do you mean?" 

"I can see it in the way you get lost in a book, and the way you play the flute. And also, in that wistful expression you get when you look at beautiful things, and the way you find pleasure in the small details that make life worth living." Quatre stopped speaking to evaluate Trowa's reaction. The brunet was staring at the floor, and Quatre couldn't make out much of his expression behind the obscuring fall of hair. _You're not half as cynical as you think you are, Trowa. It's just armour - a shell to protect your dreams. But I can see through it - you let me._

He raised his head, "Do you see that with your empathy?" 

"Partly," Quatre shrugged. "But also from spending time with you and talking." 

"It's nice to have someone to talk with," the other pilot admitted. "And, actually, learning to cook could be fun." He let his head fall back and regarded the ceiling in thought. He continued almost to himself. "I miss traveling. I'd like to see the world as a tourist instead of a soldier. Playing the flute, I enjoy. But it's something private. I don't think I'd ever want to perform with it." 

"So, you do have things you could look forward to doing after the war," Quatre declared in triumph. 

"Maybe," Trowa gave in with a lopsided smile. He looked for a moment as though he would speak further to that point, but instead stood and collected Quatre's empty bowl and spoon. "I'll take these back to the galley." 

"Oh, okay. Um, thanks." Quatre stood as well, watching Trowa leave. Running his fingers through his hair, Quatre indulged a private smile. He moved to his bed and retrieved his pyjamas. He stared at the pale blue clothing for a moment, and then headed for the wardrobe. He exchanged the blue pyjamas for his favourite pair. In a rich, deep magenta silk, they indulged what vanity Quatre allowed himself. He felt the colour was flattering to his complexion, highlighted his eyes, and offset his hair. Though he had no intentions of pursuing Trowa tonight, there was no harm in looking good. 

As he changed, Quatre rolled his eyes at his own premeditation. Still, it felt nice to be the object of Trowa's interest, even if it was something the other pilot was uncomfortable with. _Maybe he's uncomfortable liking another boy?_ Quatre wondered. And, he realised, he'd been at pains to disguise his own interest in Trowa. _He could believe his feelings are unreciprocated. I really haven't done anything to encourage him - quite the opposite._ Determining to no longer deliberately hide his attraction to his friend, Quatre settled on top of his bed in what he hoped was a graceful sprawl, grabbing his paperback. 

Presently, Trowa returned. Quatre flashed him a smile from over the top of his book and resumed reading even though his attention wasn't fully on the text before him. With a suppressed smile, Quatre tried not to fidget as he felt Trowa's eyes on him - curious, appreciative, and still somewhat nervous. _Nervous because he doesn't know how I feel, or nervous because he knows I can sense what he's feeling - or both? Or something else?_ Try though he did, Quatre found himself struggling to come up with a suitable way to address Trowa's apprehension. Silently, he cursed himself for his impatience while simultaneously cursing himself for his cowardice. He reminded himself of his resolve not to take the initiative yet. Maybe Trowa would do or say something that would help. 

Trowa entered the bathroom and Quatre found himself listening, with some pleasure, to the sounds of his friend undressing and brushing his teeth. It was an odd kind of comfort to be sharing space with someone. He'd always had so much physical personal space as a child; Quatre was surprised that he enjoyed having another so close. After Trowa emerged, he set his pile of neatly folded clothes on a chair and crawled onto the other bed, resting on his side to face Quatre. Using his thumb to keep his place, Quatre let his book fall to the mattress and rolled to face his friend. 

It was with a mild flush of warmth that Quatre regarded Trowa's reclining form, displayed unselfconsciously by Trowa's habit of sleeping in just his boxers. Now permitting his gaze to linger on the contours of his friend's body, Quatre fought the equal urges to, either stammer an apology and turn away, or to slide from his bed and close the small distance between them. Grateful that the loose drape of his pyjamas hid the evidence of the effect Trowa's body was having on him, Quatre succeeded, and spoke softly, "Thanks for staying again, but I wanted to let you know I won't be prying unless you invite me too." 

"I know." Trowa met his eyes with what Quatre decided would pass for a full-blown smile from the other pilot. It was still a subtle expression, but it reached more of his face, sparkling in his eyes and affecting his entire demeanor. 

Quatre studied his friend for a time; the way in which Trowa was lying had permitted his face-obscuring fringe to fall aside, revealing elegant features - angular and soft at the same time. "What changed your mind?" 

Trowa cocked his head as he inquired, "About what?" 

"About me. You trust me now." 

Before responding, Trowa took a thoughtful breath, "I realised it wasn't about trusting you, because I did - and I do." 

Quatre tilted his head at the rather cryptic response, matching the inclination of his friend's. "Then what was it about?" 

"It was more about trusting myself," was Trowa's low reply. He met Quatre's gaze steadily for a time before casting his eyes down to his hand, idly picking imaginary lint from the bedspread. 

_Trusting himself?_ Quatre contemplated the implications of such a statement. Was it that Trowa didn't trust himself with an ally? _Or something about me specifically?_ And the trust issue was invariably complicated by the attraction between them. _Trowa must know I know how he feels about me._ Or would he? Quatre hadn't explained exactly how his empathy functioned; Trowa might think he had more privacy of feeling than he actually did have. Quatre's mood soured at that thought. It had been bad enough when he'd upset Trowa that evening in Anatolia. _Or maybe he doesn't feel like he has anything to hide from me?_

Trowa spoke again, rousing Quatre from his thoughts. "So, what's the book about?" 

"Oh," he lifted the book still in his hand, glancing at the cover. "It's a science fiction story about," Quatre paused to grin. "Ironically enough, teenagers who are recruited to fight a war. All the kids are strategic geniuses and are given command of remote fleets of ships. It's hard to explain, but the précis sounded interesting to me, although I haven't read much fiction." He held the book out for Trowa's inspection. 

"I don't know if I've read that one," Trowa spoke, reaching for the novel. As he took it, his fingers met Quatre's sending a brief thrill of electricity along the blond's arm. Pausing at that touch, Trowa looked up. His eyes held a questioning aspect. 

Slowly, Quatre released his hold on the book, allowing the contact between them to linger, deliberately prolonging the slide of his fingers against Trowa's. "I'm enjoying it so far," he softened his tone, hoping his words conveyed a second meaning clearly to his friend: _Yes, this is okay._

"You are?" His friend's background discomfort was eclipsed by a curious relief. 

As their eyes met, Quatre felt the space around him dwindling. "Yes, it's _very_ good." 

"Maybe I could," Trowa hesitated, his eyes flicking down to the book in his hands. "Try it too?" 

Fairly certain they both knew they weren't talking about the book, Quatre was careful in his phrasing of his next statement. "I really think you'd like it if you did." 

"I don't know." Slender fingers traced the lettering on the cover. "It's not the sort of thing I've read before." 

A rush of confusion surged through the blond. _He's never been attracted to a boy before, or he's never been romantically involved - both, neither? Why is this so hard?_ "I hadn't either, but I had a strong feeling about this one, from the moment I first saw it." 

"The cover art is nice, I guess." 

Quatre rolled forward onto his stomach to be closer. He waited to speak until he could meet Trowa's eyes again and, feeling bold, spoke earnestly, "It is. It's beautiful, but that's not the only reason. I like what's inside. The more I read, the more I'm drawn into the story." 

"The characters sound like you could relate to them." 

"I do. They're strong, fascinating, and complex. It's not a story for a casual reader, and I know you're not. Neither am I." 

"It sounds good, but I..." Trowa frowned. "Quatre, I'll think about it." And there was a note of finality in his tone. 

"All right." Quatre experienced both hope and doubt at that last statement. Hope that he and Trowa had at least acknowledged what was growing between them, yet, a doubt niggled that maybe the exchange really was just about a novel, and he'd left Trowa thinking his only ally was mentally unstable. "I'll go brush my teeth," he said, getting up. He needed some time to collect his thoughts in private. 

_That was weird._ Quatre took his time in washing his face, brushing his teeth, and combing his hair. _What now?_ He sat on the toilet to trim his fingernails, knowing he was stalling for time. Give him space to think about it. _Go back in there and treat him as if nothing had changed._ Because nothing truly was different - they were still new friends hanging out and getting to know each other. 

When he returned, Trowa had turned off the main lights and gotten under the covers. Lying on his back with his hands folded across his chest, his demeanor was pensive and calm. Despite his determination to continue as normal, Quatre found himself overly self-conscious and hesitant to speak. _Say something - anything._ "Are you, ah, warm enough? I have an extra blanket in the wardrobe." 

"I'm comfortable. Thanks." 

"Okay." Quatre climbed into his bed and settled under the covers, staring at the ceiling. "Do you have enough pillows?" 

"I have enough pillows," was the amused reply. 

"There's nothing you need?" 

"No. I said I'm comfortable," Trowa turned his head to fix Quatre with curious eyes. "Are _you_?" 

"Yes," Quatre managed, saw the other boy's small smile, and relaxed before returning it. "Of course." Everything was still fine. In fact, Quatre was hard pressed to detect any discomfort from Trowa at all, leading him to wonder if he'd imagined the entire exchange over the novel - or even that the subtext he'd perceived hadn't been deliberate on Trowa's part. 

Shifting to his side, Quatre maintained the eye contact with Trowa, but didn't say anything more. He continued to smile as he studied Trowa's face; his gaze lingered on the gentle curve of his friend's lips. Repeatedly tracing the seductive lines of that rosy flesh with his eyes, Quatre tried to imagine how it would feel to touch Trowa's lips - to brush his fingertips over their delicate shape, to feel Trowa's breath under his touch, and then to lean in and replace his fingers with his own lips... 

"I was wondering. Why don't you read fiction?" Trowa's question roused Quatre from his fantasy. The blond blinked, his awareness snapping back to reality while he forcibly ignored the heavy pressure that had been growing in his groin. 

Given the duality of meaning in the prior conversation about reading material, Quatre hesitated, trying to decide whether Trowa was attempting to talk about _them_ or his reading habits. Choosing the safe route, Quatre opted to go with a literal interpretation of his friend's query. "Oh, it's not for lack of interest," Quatre explained. "I love reading fiction, but I was never allowed to." 

Trowa's eyes widened and a note of shocked incredulity entered his voice, "You weren't allowed?" 

"Um, no," was Quatre's embarrassed reply. 

"That's absurd." Trowa's tone echoed the sudden irritation Quatre could sense from the other boy. 

"I always thought so," Quatre shrugged, relieved that they were once more having a normal conversation. "But I did manage to sneak the occasional novel to read, but it was difficult since I did all my schooling at home with private tutors. Father did not approve of me distracting myself with what he deemed fantastical rubbish." 

"Your father sounds very harsh. I can understand why you wanted to leave." 

A fragment of guilt gnawed at Quatre. Suddenly he felt selfish for complaining about his family to a boy who had none. "I shouldn't complain so much. At least I had a father." 

But Trowa shook his head, turned, and propped himself up on his elbow. "Everything's relative, Quatre. At least I got to read whatever the hell I wanted to. Freedom is valuable too, and I don't mean the political sort." 

"It's okay. I understand that, but there's no need to feel bad for me or my life." 

"It annoys me that someone would do things like that to you, especially your own father. I wouldn't really know, but aren't parents supposed to help their children be happy and support them?" 

"In theory they are. My father?" Quatre made a face. "He didn't want _me_. He wanted the perfect heir. I think he has control issues." 

"From what you've told me, that's an understatement." 

Quatre laughed. 

"I'm sorry. I don't know your father. It's not my place to insult him." 

"Actually," Quatre reflected on his complete and utter lack of offense. "I don't mind. I probably should, but right now, I really don't. And he is a jerk." Quatre shifted to lie on his back before clarifying his thoughts. "No, he's a controlling jerk. In fact, you could even call him a _self-absorbed_, controlling jerk." 

"I don't feel so bad thinking it now that you've said it," Trowa chuckled. 

"I did, didn't I," Quatre couldn't keep the big, stupid grin from his face. "I feel better for it too. I'd never be able to say those things to his face." 

"If I ever meet him, I'll tell him for you," said Trowa in the dry tone Quatre was coming to associate with his friend's sense of humour. 

"You wouldn't!" 

"I could..." Trowa mused in mock seriousness, rolling onto his back, hands behind his head. 

"He's bigger than you," Quatre informed him. 

"Ah, but I'm very fast." Trowa's lips twitched into an amused smirk as he glanced sidelong at the blond. 

Laughing, Quatre drew his covers up over his shoulders and sighed his contentment. At this moment, it would be so easy to forget where they were going, and the danger they would be facing. It would be so easy to believe, for just this night, that they were simply two boys enjoying each other's company. 

"Well," Quatre spoke reaching for the light switch. "Good night then." 

"Good night." 

In the darkness, Quatre tried to fall asleep, but he was unable to find that peaceful oblivion straight away. Instead, he found himself listening to the soft sounds of his friend's breathing, the rustle of Trowa's bedclothes as he shifted to find a comfortable position, and the rhythm of his own heartbeat, too rapid as his thoughts scurried about, wondering and hoping. 

Eventually, he gave up the desire for sleep immediately and addressed the quiet form in the other bed. "Trowa?" Quatre spoke softly, not wanting to disturb Trowa too much if the other boy were already falling asleep. 

"Hm?" was the immediate response, demonstrating the other pilot was still fully awake. 

"I just wanted to say that I'm really glad you consider me a friend." Quatre waited for the other pilot to say something in response, but he didn't so Quatre continued, "And, um, since I haven't told you, I consider you a friend too." He shifted to roll onto his side, facing Trowa in the dark. "Can you believe I've never had a close friend my own age before?" 

"It's been a long time since I've had any friends. And never one my own age." 

Quatre smiled, yet wondered at the hint of sadness he detected in Trowa's mood and tone. Since Trowa didn't seem that sleepy, Quatre decided to initiate more conversation, to try to get to know even more about his friend. "Can I ask you something?" 

"Sure." 

"You said only a fool doesn't feel fear. So, what is it that you're most scared of?" 

Trowa didn't reply immediately, his dim form shifting in the shadows. "Maybe I'm a fool." 

"I don't believe that." 

"Hmm. I don't know. I'm scared of lots of things." 

"Like?" 

Again, there was a pause before Trowa spoke. His words held a questioning aspect, as if he weren't certain of their truth. "I'm scared of losing." 

"Losing?" 

"Battles, poker, control, my life..." 

Quatre frowned, turning Trowa's words over in his mind. The other pilot didn't seem competitive per se, but then, personal loss was often very different from not winning. "Why?" he asked. 

The rustling of sheets and vague movement of Trowa's shadowed profile indicated the other boy had shrugged. "I'm not sure. I haven't really thought about it that much until now." 

"I think I'm afraid of failing," Quatre answered his own question, wanting Trowa to know he was open to personal disclosure as well. "I suppose that's a little like losing in a way. I don't know if that's my biggest fear though. I always sort of thought that greatest fears are buried so deeply you don't even know what they are." 

"Or they could be too complex to put into words." 

"Or both." 

"That's a disturbing thought." 

"It is. But our subconscious is full of stuff we're not really aware of." 

"That, and our baser instincts can suddenly emerge and strip away rational thought when we don't necessarily expect them to," said Trowa, his voice softer. "That scares me." 

"Because you would lose control?" Quatre wondered. 

"Yeah," was Trowa's reply before they both fell into silence for a time. 

"Okay, another question, then," Quatre said. "This one's easier." 

In the gloom, Quatre watched Trowa roll over to face him before the other boy replied, "Okay." 

"What are your favourite things? And why?" 

"Hmm," Trowa began, propping himself up on his elbow. "Music and reading - music is so beautiful, and reading allows me to travel in my mind." 

A thoughtful pause ensued; Quatre plumped his pillow beneath him waiting for his friend to continue. 

"Tumbling because," Trowa said, stopped for a moment, and added, "I guess because I feel good when I do it. It's exhilarating." The final elements of Trowa's list followed quickly, as if he hadn't had to think about them that much. "Cats because they're so graceful, strong, and independent. And snow, because after a heavy snow, the world looks so perfect and clean. It's just an illusion, but I like that." Trowa lowered himself back down onto his pillow and asked, "What about you?" 

Even though he couldn't make out Trowa's expression in the dark, he felt his friend's smile, and returned it before speaking. "Um, music definitely. It's always been an outlet of expression for me - and it is beautiful." Quatre pushed his covers down to sit up slightly, shifting his pillow against the headboard. "Let's see, what else? Wargames - much to my father's displeasure, but he allowed me that indulgence believing that the strategic and tactical thinking would aid me when I took over, or rather when I _was_ to take over the corporation. One of my best games was playing Napoleon at Waterloo and winning." 

He heard Trowa's soft chuckle, a gentle, warm sound that trickled through the darkness, before he continued. "Water, I'm discovering is something I love - whether it's in a pool, the ocean, rain, anytime. It's so spectacular. And I love being on the Earth. It's so beautiful and alive." 

"I used to hate the Earth," Trowa volunteered. 

"Why?" Quatre asked, feeling the other pilot's melancholy. 

"I grew up here, and had too many bad memories from the wars." 

"Is that why you went into space?" 

"Yeah, I thought it would be different in the colonies. There was so much more idealism there, and hope for peace. I thought I could escape the violence and conflict." 

"But I thought you didn't believe in peace?" said Quatre, recalling their earlier exchange. 

"I guess I used to. But obviously, the colonies are tainted by the same problems as the Earth. I couldn't escape the war." Trowa sighed, a weary sound. 

"That's sad," was Quatre's honest response. 

"Maybe," Trowa's tone was doubtful. "At least I'm good at fighting." 

"But you're good at other stuff too." 

"Maybe I'm best at fighting." 

Troubled by his friend's sadness - no, it wasn't quite sadness, more resignation again, Quatre fell silent for a time. He remembered something else he wanted to ask Trowa. "Can I ask you something else?" he inquired quietly. 

"Go ahead." 

"Yesterday, in the cargo hold, Carvey called you Nanashi. Is it a name?" 

"No." The warmth was gone from Trowa's voice with that terse syllable. 

Hesitating in the wake of Trowa's change of mood, Quatre took a slow breath and pressed ahead, curious, "What does it mean?" 

"It's a Japanese word. It translates as 'no-name'" 

"You're right, that's not a name." Quatre said, understanding why Trowa hadn't been pleased when he'd asked. It seemed cruel to Quatre, to call anyone such a thing. 

"When I was young, a lot of the mercenaries called me that," Trowa explained. "I didn't mind so much then, but later? I wanted a real name, and I don't have one." 

"I'm sorry." 

Trowa heaved an exasperated sounding sigh. "Don't be. It's hardly your fault." 

Quatre winced, but resisted apologising again. "Do you mind being called Trowa?" 

"Well, I didn't like the original Trowa Barton very much, but then, that doesn't mean the name is bad. It's good to have something to be known by." 

"Do you like it though?" Quatre asked, taking note of the fact that there had been a real Trowa Barton, or rather, a different Trowa Barton. 

"I don't know. Do you like your name?" 

"Sometimes." 

"Trowa's fine," Trowa paused and then spoke again, his voice softer, his mood warming once more. "And the way you say it, it makes it feel like my name." 

"Did you ever have a nickname?" 

"Aside from Nanashi or kid? Not really. One friend called me Flip, but I hated that." 

"_Flip_?" Quatre's voiced rose an octave. 

"Please, don't..." Trowa groaned. "It's awful." 

"Sorry." 

"It's okay," Trowa laughed, and then steered the conversation away from himself. "Did you ever have a nickname? Quatre's rather formal sounding." 

"Formal was the way of things when I was growing up, so no. Just Quatre." 

"Hmm." 

Something about the tone of Trowa's thoughtful hum made Quatre suspicious. "What?" he asked. 

"You need a nickname," Trowa declared, as if this supposed fact should have been obvious. 

"Why?" 

"Quatre's hard to say when I'm getting sleepy." 

At that, Quatre laughed, but was pleased to sense that Trowa's good humour had returned. "So what do you want to call me?" 

"Let me think." 

Quatre settled back to lie on his back, dragging his pillow with him, waiting for the result of Trowa's contemplation. Impatient, he finally prompted his friend, "Well?" 

"I have one. It suits you too, and works with your name." 

"So?" Quatre rolled forward, leaning toward his friend in anticipation. 

"Cat. I'll call you Cat." 

"Cat," Quatre murmured recalling his friend's earlier comments about cats and wondering how it was Trowa felt the nickname suited him. Glad for the privacy bestowed by the darkness, Quatre realised he was grinning like an idiot. "I actually like that." 

"Good." Trowa sounded pleased with himself. 

"Thanks," was Quatre's reply as he struggled to stifle a yawn. 

Hearing the yawn, Trowa chuckled as he rolled over to his other side, facing away from Quatre. "Good night, Cat." 

Quatre couldn't resist; he had to say it. "Good night, Flip." 

A muffled groan and a dry remark followed. "I'm ignoring you now." 

"Good night, Trowa," the blond amended, hoping to express his contentment through his tone. Curled on his side, Quatre remained awake for a time, indulging the warmth and affection of his new friendship. 

  
  


They spent most of the following day together. Quatre forced himself to remain relaxed with his friend even though part of him was quietly hoping for some opportunity wherein Trowa would let him know if he had been thinking about things between them. In the absence of his friend addressing the issue, Quatre ran through different approaches in his own head. Trowa appreciated directness and honesty. Maybe the double-edged conversation over the book had shaken the brunet's confidence in him somehow. Perhaps, Quatre decided, it would be better to be direct, to speak as plainly as possible and lay his feelings out there as if they were some part of a mission parameter. 

But having decided on this strategy, Quatre didn't manage to find a time in which it felt appropriate to address his feelings with Trowa. Despite the closeness of the previous days, today, Trowa felt different. He had grown more quiet again, and distracted. Quatre's attempts to engage him in more personal conversation failed as Trowa's responses became short, and often uninformative, while comfortable silences grew awkward. Instead, they talked about _things_, the ship, the scenery, the canal, and worst of all, the weather. 

That evening, reclined in a pair of folding deck chairs the boys had commandeered to take up to the observation deck, Quatre pulled his blanket more tightly about himself in an attempt to fend off the chilly night breeze, while Trowa remained stretched out quietly beside him, seemingly less affected by the cold. 

"I'm going to need a hot bath before bed tonight to warm back up," Quatre remarked. 

"Hm," said Trowa, continuing to gaze upward. 

Quatre frowned. He'd hoped that a night of stargazing might provide the right setting and mood for personal disclosure, so had happily accepted Trowa's invitation to observe the night sky. They'd been up here on the observation deck for several hours, during which Trowa had pointed out all the constellations he could recognise and had even told some of the stories behind the mythological names and figures. 

It had been pleasant enough; except that Trowa continued to grow more distant. Despite his friend's chattiness over the stars, he continued to shy away from more intimate topics. Frustrated and confused by the change in Trowa's manner and mood, Quatre heaved a sigh. "Well, I'm going to go to bed now..." he trailed off, hoping Trowa would join him once more. 

"Okay," was all Trowa said, though he did turn his head to smile at Quatre briefly. 

Quatre unwrapped his blanket from around his legs and stood to fold it. "Did you want to, um, join me?" 

"Oh," Trowa said, as if startled. No, not startled - uncomfortable. "I thought I'd sleep in my cabin tonight, actually." 

"Oh," Quatre echoed, bowing his head and blinking back the tears that sprang to his eyes unwarranted. Bringing his childish response under control, he asked, "Are you sure? I don't mind." 

"I don't want to impose on you, Cat." Trowa's voice was warmer, and Quatre sensed the familiar affection with the use of the new nickname. He cheered at that. 

"I've liked having you there, so it's not an imposition at all," he told his friend. 

With another smile, Trowa stood, draping his blanket neatly over his arm. "Thanks, but I'd still feel like I was imposing. We both need our sleep for what's coming." 

"I suppose you're right," Quatre admitted with a trembling smile, watching as Trowa stepped toward him. His stomach did a somersault, and his breath caught as the tall pilot closed the short distance between them. 

His friend's lips curved into a small, sad smile, and then Trowa spoke again, his voice near a whisper, "I'm sorry, Quatre." 

But before Quatre could stammer out a request for an explanation of the apology, he found himself pulled into a brief, awkward embrace. The warmth of Trowa's body, his clean warm scent, and the soft skin of his friend's cheek pressed against his, swam through his senses. He groped to return the hug, wanting it to last a little longer, and made a small sound of protest as Trowa stepped away quickly, speaking a hurried, "Good night." 

Rooted to the spot, Quatre stared mutely while Trowa turned to descend to the decks below. Presently, the chill of the night air prompted him to move again. He shook his head and wondered aloud, "What the hell was that?" _Should I follow him?_ Quatre contemplated that for a moment, and decided against it. Whatever it was that Trowa had felt he needed to apologise for implied to Quatre that perhaps his friend needed some personal space. They had been spending most of their time together - both waking and sleeping. There was one more night on the Destiny. 

  
  


Unfortunately, and all too soon, in Quatre's estimation it was the last night on the ship. He and Trowa had sequestered themselves in Quatre's cabin for the afternoon and late into the evening, pouring over maps and related information regarding OZ troop deployments, and evaluating possible scenarios regarding the New Edwards mission. They shared detailed technical data on each of their mobile suits, planned for different resulting situations, and eventually fell into silence once they'd worn out each other's brains with their strategy session. Quatre still hadn't managed to speak to Trowa about their relationship. Time was growing short. 

Seated cross-legged in the middle of one twin bed, Quatre faced the other where Trowa was lying on his back, the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes. The brunet sighed and sat up in a single fluid movement that belied the strength of his slender body. "I guess now that we've exhausted all of our ideas for the New Edwards mission, I'll go back to my own cabin and let you sleep." He stood and moved to the door. 

With those words, Quatre felt as if his heart would stop and he steeled himself to go through with what he'd planned to do this final night on the ship - to say the things he'd been too scared to say to Trowa for the past few nights. This was his last real chance for who knew how long? "Um, Trowa? Wait a minute, don't leave yet, please?" 

"What is it, Cat?" Trowa asked, turning as he stifled a small yawn. Quatre smiled at the yawn. It was a small thing, but the action demonstrated that Trowa was feeling relaxed - and then there was his use of the nickname. 

But Quatre found his smile vanish as he spoke again, feeling a flutter of anxiety as he did so, "I, uh, there's something I need to tell you." Pausing for any indication of Trowa's receptivity to the overture, he groaned inwardly as the brunet raised an eyebrow in response. Hurriedly, Quatre spoke to reassure. "Nothing bad, I don't think. No, not like last time anyway, but it's important..." he trailed off, dropping his eyes to his lap. 

"What is it, Cat?" Trowa repeated more softly before moving back from the door to sit close beside the blond on the bed. 

"Well, you know - you _must_ know - I can tell how you feel, um, about me. Not that I'm trying to assume anything about those feelings, but I know that you - that you like me - a lot." Quatre was staring at his hands, feeling flustered. _This was easier when we were talking about the damn book. Just, take a breath and say it,_ he instructed himself, but failed to feel any less nervous. 

"I do. I like you a lot." Trowa affirmed and there was warmth in his voice. 

Encouraged by that tone and the words, Quatre continued quickly, hoping speed would even out his awkward delivery. "I think you should know - and I want to be clear about this - that I feel the same way about you." Judging by the heat in his face, he was blushing as he raised his eyes to meet Trowa's. The other pilot's dark green gaze was softer somehow, vulnerable. "I really like you, Trowa. I care for you, and I've really enjoyed getting to know you better during this trip. And I - I'm attracted to you too. So, _that's_ mutual as well." Quatre moved his hand to cover Trowa's in a tentative first contact. "You don't have to be scared about it. I mean, about me not feeling the same way. Or whatever you might be unsure of." 

Trowa looked slightly stunned. Or was the subtle expression he wore dread? For once, Quatre wished his empathy were stronger; his own anxiety and anticipation were drowning out his ability to read much from his friend. Still, he resolutely forged ahead in the wake of the Trowa's silence, "So, I was thinking that we could, ah, explore those feelings together...?" The unspoken conclusion to those words was 'tonight'. 

A pregnant silence hung between them, fragile yet oppressive. Quatre struggled to keep his breathing even and willed his heart to slow its uncomfortable pounding in his chest. His hand resting on Trowa's felt numb and paralyzed as he waited for the other boy to respond. _Please say yes._

Trowa spoke at last, his voice pitched low and barely audible, "That's not what I'm scared of." He answered the earlier statement before replying to the last in a scarce whisper, "And I don't think we should explore those feelings." 

That was not at all what Quatre had expected to hear, and before he could stop himself, he'd blurted a demand, "Why not?" 

Trowa's expression fell into sadness, "I... I want to, Quatre. I do. And I thought - or rather - I believed for a time that maybe it could work, if you felt the same way. Because I do care about you, and you made me feel like it - like we - would have a real chance. And when I think about touching you... to touch you, it would be incredible. 

"But..." Trowa sighed heavily as if all his energy were draining from him in that single exhalation. "Quatre, we have to _fight_ together. I can't ignore the reality of what we're doing, no matter how much I might want to. When it comes down to it, dreams are just fantasies - illusions. 

"It's too hard," he continued resolutely, but struggled for a moment, swallowing with difficulty, "It's hard enough to lose a friend. I couldn't bear to be closer to you knowing that I might lose you." 

"What about...?" Quatre struggled with his own tears at the rejection, and his hand on Trowa's twitched before he withdrew it to his own lap. "What if this is the only chance we have then? Shouldn't we take advantage of this while we can? Since we both feel the same way? I don't want to lose you either, but if it's a matter of having and losing you, or never having you at all - don't you think...?" 

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry if I somehow led you on. I just can't. Maybe though, if we both survive this." 

"I promise I'll try t..." 

"No. No promises, Quatre. A soldier can't promise anything. We don't know what we'll be called upon to do, or what mistakes we might make." Trowa's voice sounded far too weary for his age; Quatre shivered in response before speaking in protest. 

"But..." 

Trowa silenced him with a finger pressed gently over his lips. "Shh. We just have to accept our roles in this, as they are. And do the best we can." Trowa met his eyes with a small smile, "And hope," he said, removing his finger from Quatre's lips. The blond closed his eyes as he felt fingertips pass across his cheek, and through his hair in a trembling caress before Trowa's voice came again, unexpectedly tender and coloured with regret. "We can hope." 

  
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The End

  
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Notes: 

[8] Panama Canal website:   
www.pancanal.com/  
(if ffnet doesn't strip out the url ^^;;) Check out the live cam! It's cool. You can see the monstrous container ships that inspired the Destiny going through, as well as private yachts, cruise ships, bulk carriers, tankers, and more! They even have a wee clip of the U.S.S. New Jersey going through the Miraflores Lock. 

[9] 'Panamax' is the largest ship size able to fit through the canal... and they're pretty damn huge! Larger ships (mostly tankers) have to take a more dangerous southern passage. 


End file.
